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LILAC    AND    ROSE. 


THE    AFRICAN    BEEFEATER 


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NEW  YOKK: 
BURDICK,  HEED  &  ROBERTS 

No.  8  SPRUCE  STREET. 


INDEX. 


Affecting  Tale,       .... 

Annie  Wilbur.    By  Miss  L.  Douglas, 

Autumn.     Editorial, 

Advice  to  Young  Men, 

A  Flower's  Life  and  Lessons.    By  J.  H.  Bixby, 

Azure  Tinted  Dome.     By  M.  L., 

Beware,      ..... 

Beauty,  ..... 

Bunyan's  Christiana.    By  Mrs.  M.  E.  Doubleday, 

Beautiful  Epitaph,       .... 

Battle  Monument.     Editorial, 

Bold  Strokes  of  Truth, 

Brother  in  Need,  A.    By  Rev.  S.  I.  Prime, 

Christianity,      ..... 
Canary  Birds,  .... 

Christian's  Pilgrimage,  The.    By  M.  S.  BuUions, 
Constantinople.    By  the  Editor,    . 
Child  and  Hermit,         .... 
Consistency,  .  .  ,  . 

Character,  A  Good,       .... 
Christian  Race,  The.    By  A.  V.  C.  Schenck, 

Dream,  A.    By  E.  B.,  ... 

Doom  of  the  Soul.    By  Rev.  A.  A.  Lipscomb, 

Dig,  DigDeep.     Editorial, 

Dance,  The.    By  the  Editor, 

Did  Jesus  thus  Suffer.    Rev.  S.  L  Prime, 

Death-Bed,  A,        . 

Death,   .  .  .  .      . 

Dedication  of  Youth  to  God.    By  Mrs.  EUis, 

Epitaphs,  .      •      . 

Evil  HoUow,  The, 

Envy  and  Candor,        .  , 

Eulogium,  .  .  , 

Extraordinary  Scene,    . 

Evening  Walk, 

Earth's  Visions.    By  Mrs.  L.  G.  Abell, 

Filial  Affection.     Editorial, 

Fuschia,  .... 

Farmer's  Work  for  September, 

Fatal  Secret,  The,         .... 

Fashionable  Amusements.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  M'Cabe, 

First  Impressions  of  England.     By  the  Editor, 

Firm  Trust  in  God,  .... 


.     at 

102 

.       109 

204 

.       206 
384 

30 
3i 
<6 

200 
.       28d 

242 
.      3T9 

52 
136,  163 
211 
247 
279 
303 
813 

sat 

217 
251 
297 
^22 
364 
364 
888 

71 
95 
100 
108 
275 
314 
363 

9 

16 

39 

147 

123,  159 

153 

.   171 


IV 


INDEX. 


Flower  Garden  in  Paris,  .  .  « 

Family  Distinctions.     By  S.  B.  Roberts, 
Female  Beauty,  .... 

Flight  into  Egypt,  The, 
Fail  of  Absalom,    .... 
Family  Love,  ..... 

Granite  State.     By  Dr.  C.  B.  Webster, 
Graves  of  those  "we  Love.    By  W.  Irving, 
Grapes,  to  Preserve,      .  .  .  . 

Gems  of  Sentiment, 
Grand  Duke  and  the  Jew, 
Gems  of  History, 

German  Boy,  The.    By  Mrs.  E.  A.  Comstock, 
Good  Daughter,  A,  .  .  . 

Home  of  the  Soul.    By  F.  S.  Key,      . 
Hints,  ..... 

Hints  to  All.     By  Mrs.  L.  G.  Abell,     . 
Heart,  The,  .... 

Hints  to  Young  Men,     . 
Hints,         ,  .  .  .  . 

Industry  Rewarded, 

Instructive  Dreamer,  The, 

Influence  of  Teachers.     By  Rev.  A.  Walker, 

Infidel  taken  at  his  Word, 

I  am  Dying,  .... 

Indecision.    By  Mrs.  E.  Ricord, 

Lost  Son,  The.     Editorial, 

Look  Aloft,       .... 

Lilac,  ..... 

Last  Supper,  The, 

Lady  Jane  Grey.     Editorial, 

London.     By  the  Editor, 

Life  of  Trees.     By  Miss  B.  Chickering,    . 

Lett.ers  from  a  Hollow  Tree, 

Mother's  Treasure,  The.     Editorial, 

Mother's  Love,  A,         . 

Man  of  Sorrows,  The:    By  Miss  Aird, 

Mammoth  Wealth,        .  : 

Mary  Nelson,         .... 

Mental  Training  of  Children,  . 

Moral  Courage  in  Everyday  Life, 

Mother's  Choice,  A.     By  Mrs.  M.  J.  George, 

Mutability,  .... 

Modesty  in  Young  Men, 

Magnolia  Grandiflora, 

Moral  Hints,     .... 

Mourning  Apparel.    By  the  Elditor, 


173 
.   318 

336 

349 
.   403 

411 

131 
142 
146 

.  180 
181 

.  205 
377 

.   378 

18 
39 

75 

94 

342 

.   426 

58 
69 

197 

214 

.   302 

372 

45 
52 
64 
81,  145 
165 
225 
.   287 
307,  391,  412 

117 
132 
157 
209 

.  237 
252 

.  263 
273 

.  274 
332 

.  360 
326 

.   369 


INDEX. 


Music  at  Night,  .... 

Music — Protection.     C.  Dingley, 

"         Bri.stol.     T.  Hastings, 

"         Sabbath  Morn.     T.  Hastings, 

"         How  Charming  is  the  Place.     T.  Hastings, 

"  Selucia.     T.  Hastings, 

"         There  is  a  Calm.     T.  Hastings, 

Natural  Bridge,  The.     By  E.  Burritt, 
New  Year's  Address.     By  the  Editor, 
Nature.     By  Rev.  M.  Montague, 
No  License.     By  Miss  Mary  Coe, 


Only  Daughter,  The. 
Old'Church,  The, 
On  Recreation, 
Our  Bodies,     . 


By  Mrs.  S.  C.  M'Cabe, 


Passing  Moments.     By  Rev.  S.  W.  Whelpley, 
Poem.     By  Mrs.  St.  Leon  Loud, 
Practical  Hints,        .... 
Pagan  Morality,  .  .  .  . 

Piony,         ..... 
Premiums,  .  .  .  .  . 


Rose,  The, 

Roman  Virtue, 

Ruth  Gleaning, 

Religion  or  Ruin, 

Reasons  for  Family  Worship. 

Refreshing  Gales, 


By  Rev.  C.  A.  Smith, 


Spirit  River,  The.     By  A.  W.  Holden,      . 
Stanzas,  .  .  .  . 

Shadows  of  the  Past.     By  Mrs.  E.  A.  Comstock, 

Sentiments  and  Similies, 

Sin  and  Folly  of  Fretting, 

Syrian  Ox,         ..... 

Salmasius,  .  .  .  .  . 

Sacred  Song.     By  Mary  J.  B.  Deuia,    . 

Scrap,         ...... 

Scrap,  ...... 

Summer's  Gone.     By  H.  A.  B,       . 
Sentiments,       ..... 

Selected  Gems,       .  .  .  .  . 

Sinner's  Call,  The.     By  Rev.  S.  D.  Burchard, 
Sabbath  Evening.     By  Oscar  L.  Beach,     . 
Short  and  Sure  Way  to  Heaven.     By  the  Editor, 
Singular  Reproof,  .  .  .  .  . 

Salaries  of  the  British  Ministry, 

She  is  Laid  in  the  Earth,    .... 

Saturday  Night.     By  Miss  .T.  Skerritt, 
Summer  Midnight.     By  .1.  E.  D.  Comstock, 


VI 


INDEX. 


Touching  Anecdote,      ......  36 

Three  Scenes,                      .             .      ■      .             .             .  .139 

To  the  Evening  Star.     By  E.  C.  Hine,             .             .             .  172 

The  Flowers  amid  the  Corn,          .                          .             .  .195 

Terrible  Enemy  of  Home,  The,             ....  244 

Trees  and  Flowers.     By  Rev.  S.  D.  Burchard,      .             .  .253 

Two  Pictures,  The.     By  Mrs.  Anna  L.  Snelling,         .             .  343 

The  Hour  Glass, 371 

To  a  Mother  on  the  Death  of  a  Child.     By  Rev.  S.  D.  Burchard.       385 

The  Death  of  Christ,     ......  386 

To  our  Patrons  and  Friends,          .             .             .             .  .401 

Voice  O'er  the  Waters.     By  Mrs.  F.  H.  W.  Green,            .  .       304 

Wages  of  Sin,                ......  71 

We  are  Growing  Old.     By  B.  F.  Romaine,            .  .84 

What  do  we  Admire  in  Woman,           ....  90 

Will  of  GoJ, 141 

Widow  and  her  Son,     ......  201 

Woman.     By  T.  E.  Schoolar,        .             .            .            .  .324 

Women  of  America.     By  L.  G.  Abell,             .             .             .  421 

Young  Lady  and  the  Wife,             .             .             .             .  .31 

Youth  of  Nations,  The,            .....  208 


EMBELLISHMENTS. 

Passing  Moments.  .  .  Steel  Engraving. 

Miss  Tyndal.    .  . 

The  Last  Supper. 

Mrs.  Coster  and  Child. 

Lady  Jane  Gray. 

The  Only  Daughter.     . 

Constantinople.     . 

Battle  Monument,  Baltimore.  . 

Evening  Walk, 

The  Pilgrims.  . 

Washington's  House, 

St.  John  and  the  Lamb,     . 

The  Fuschia. 

Lilac  and  Rose. 

The  African  Bee-Eater.     . 

Camelia  Anemonefolia. 

Cornus  Canadensis. 

Piony, 

Magnolia  and  L\ia  Flexuosa. 

Strawberries  and  Currants.       .  .  .       "     . 

Geranium  and  Sysimachia  Bulbifera.        .  " 

Bell  Flower  and  Pink.  .  .  .       «     . 

Canterbury  Bell,  ...  "  . 

Aquilegia  Canadensis,  .  .  .       "     . 

The  Natural  Bridge.         .  ,  Wood  Engraving. 

Syrian  Ox.       .  .  .  .  .       "     , 

The  Child  and  Hermit.      ...  «'  . 


Colored  Engraving. 


5 

42 
78 
114 
150 
186 
222 
258 
294 
330 
366 
400 
6 
43 
79 
115 
151 
187 
223 
259 
295 
331 
367 
401 
57 
111 
279 


FILIAL    AFFECTION. 


The  relations  of  life  lay  the  foundation  of  correspondent 
obligations  and  duties.  Those  of  our  own  kindred  and 
blood  are  allowed  to  be  the  most  sacred  and  tender.  Among 
these,  the  Filial  Relation  holds  an  important  rank.  If 
existence  be  a  priceless  gift,  our  obligations  to  those  who 
have  been  the  instrumental  cause  of  it,  are  surpassed  by 
none,  but  such  as  result  from  creative  power  and  goodness. 
The  child  is,  as  it  were  a  part  of  the  parent ;  the  same 
blood  flows  in  his  veins,  and  for  a  long  time  his  condition  is. 
one  of  absolute  weakness  and  dependence.  The  microscopic 
insect  is  not  so  helpless  and  dependent  in  the  first  stages  of 
his  being.  In  those  creatures,  who,  from  the  moment  of 
their  birlh  are  blessed  with  the  power  of  self-preservation, 
the  principle  of  affection  is  seen  to  be  wholly  wanting.  In 
other  cases  nature  compensates  for  the  want  of  abiMty  by 
implanting  this  principle  in  the  bosom  of  the  parent  and 
its  oflspiing.  Filial  Affection  is  a  dictate  of  nature.  It  is 
natural  for  the  child  to  love  his  early  and  constant  benefac- 
tors, those  whose  hearts  have  ever  been  full  of  kindijessand 
solicitude,  and  whose  hands  have  ever  been  stretched  out 
for  his  protection  and  support. 


10  FILIAL    AFFECTION. 

The  fifth  commandment  is  in  unison  with  nature ;  it  is 
but  the  eml>odiment  of  its  dictates.  It  is  remarkable  that 
this  is  the  only  commandment  coupled  with  a  promise, 
doubtless  to  intimate  that  the  faithful  discharge  of  filial  obli- 
ligations  is  the  most  effectual  means  of  securing  the  smiles 
of  a  benignant  Providence.  It  has  been  observed  that  dis- 
obedient children  generally  come  to  an  untimely  end,  or 
meet  with  such  heavy  disappointments  and  misfortunes,  as 
to  make  life  itself  a  burden.  How  short  was  the  guilty 
career  of  Absolem !  how  fearful  and  melancholy  its  termina- 
tion. The  conduct  of  those  who  break  such  cords  of  love 
is  so  unnatural  and  so  base,  that  they  have  little  else  to 
expect  than  the  frowns  of  Heaven  and  the  detestation  of  man- 
kind. They  have  no  reason  to  expect  that  they  will  receive 
the  common  marks  of  civility  from  others,  who  have  been 
thus  ungrateful  to  the  authors  of  their  being  and  their  great- 
est benefactors. 

None  have  received  benefits  so  great  and  numerous,  as 
children  have  from  their  -parents,  many  of  which  were  be- 
stowed without  their  knowledge,  and  many  even  contrary  to 
their  wishes.  Day  and  night,  and  amidst  the  numerous 
and  formidable  dangers  that  beset  the  pathway  of  life,  they 
have  been  blessed  with  their  watchful  superintendence  and 
powerful  protection.  In  the  most  defenceless  and  most 
exposed  period  of  life,  when  they  had  no  knowledge  or 
experience  to  guide  their  steps,  their  eyes  have  never  slum- 
bered, their  feet  have  never  tired,  their  love  has  never  grown 
cold,  and  they  never  once  stopped  to  enquire  whether  we 
should  ever  have  it  in  our  power,  or  be  disposed  to  repay 
them  for  all  their  toil  and  care.  Though  it  were  more  than 
probable  we  might  not  live  to  return  their  kindness,  they 
have  been  as  careful  of  our  health  and  happiness  as  of  their 
own ;  nay,  more  so.  Late  and  early,  in  summers  heat  and 
winters  cold,  in  weariness  and  in  watching,  they  have  toiled 
for^us,  sparing  no  pains  and  shunning  no  sacrifices,  to  pro- 
mote our  happiness,  and  render  our  future  condition  in  the 
world  as  respectable  and  comfortable  as  possible. 


FILIAL    AFFECTION.  11 

Who  then  can  fully  estimate  the  debt  of  gratitude  children 
owe  to  parents,  for  such  unnumbered  and  unmerited  favors, 
such  unfailing,  disinterested  kindness? — Low  indeed  must 
those  be  sunk  in  the  scale  of  humanity,  and  destitute  of 
every  virtuous  sentiment  and  feeling,  who  can  repay  such 
kindness  with  ingratitude !  Who  could  respect  or  repose 
confidence  in  such  ingrates?  He  who  recklessly  and  habit- 
tually  violates  the  duty  he  owes  to  parents,  will  not  hesitate 
to  break  through  all  other  obligations.  He  certainly  will  not 
be  held  by  bonds  less  sacred  and  strong.  He  who  can  break 
fetters  of  brass,  will  not  be  held  by  fetters  of  straw.  The 
bosom  in  which  Filial  Affection  is  extinct  will  never  glow 
with  true  love  or  pure  friendship.  Filial  Affection  is  the  stock 
upon  which  love  and  friendship  is  engrafted ;  or,  rather  it  is 
the  soil  in  which  they  spring  and  flourish.  It  is  this  which 
first  softens  and  educates  the  heart  and  renders  it  susceptible 
to  love  and  friendship.  It  is  this  which  prepares  the  heart  for 
the  implantation  of  every  tender  sentiment ;  the  heart  which 
is  steeled  against  it  is  hardened  to  rock.  The  disobedient  son 
will  never  make  a  generous  friend  or  a  good  husband.  He 
may  ofl'er  his  hand,  but  he  will  not  give  his  heart.  He  who 
would  abuse  a  devoted  father,  will  betray  a  friend.  He  who 
could  slight  and  outrage  a  mother's  love,  may  look  coldly  on 
a  wife  and  see  her  die  of  grief,  without  a  pang  of  remorse. 
To  such  an  one,  neither  the  vow  of  friendship  or  marriage 
has  any  sacredness,  and  woe  be  unto  those  who  trust  in  him! 
Blighted  hopes  and  broken  hearts  will  be  their  miserable  lot. 

Before  then  a  person  is  received  to  the  fullest  confidence 
and  admited  to  all  the  unreserved  intimacies  and  endear- 
ments of  the  most  dev^oted  friendship,  it  would  be  wise  to 
ask  how  he  has  sustained  the  Filial  Relation.  And,  when 
proposals  are  made  for  marriage,  a  female  should  satisfy 
herself  first  on  this  point.  Be  it  that  his  character  in  other 
respects,  is  good;  The  want  of  Filial  Affection  nullifies  all 
his  pretensions  and  vitiates  all  his  boasted  virtues.  He  may 
not  be  safely  trusted  in  a  mutter  which  pertains  to  the  affec- 
tions, and  which  involves  the  happiness  of  which  true  love  is 


12  FILIAL    AFFECTION. 

the  main  ingredient.  He  is  not  a  safe  depository  of  that 
priceless  gem,  a  females  heart. 

These  remarks  are  also  applicable  to  daughters,  but  we 
are  happy  to  say,  there  is  not  in  their  case  so  much  occasion 
for  them.  Instances  of  Filial  recreancy  are  less  frequent 
among  daughters  than  sons.  Indeed  they  are  very  rare. 
Whether  this  is  owing  to  constitutional  differences,  or  to  the 
greater  tenderness  felt  for  them,  and  the  more  gentle  treat- 
ment they  receive,  or,  to  the  fact,  that  they  are  more  domes- 
ticated and  shielded  from  evil  influences,  we  cannot  exactly 
determine.  In  the  plan  of  God's  moral  and  providential 
government  there  is  a  peculiar  fitness  and  adaptation  in  every 
arrangement.  As  females  are  designed  for  a  peculiar  sphere 
of  action  and  enjoyment,  they  are  fitted,  both  by  nature  and 
the  circumstances  in  which  they  are  placed  for  this  sphere. 
They  seem  formed  for  domestic,  rather  than  for  public 
life,  to  live  retired  from  the  haunts  of  business  and  scenes 
of  turmoil  and  conflict,  and  make  home  a  little  paradise  for 
man,  by  making  it  the  centre  of  attraction  and  the  seat  of 
love.  Woman  was  designed  to  be  the  beautiful  counterpart 
of  man,  to  supply  what  was  defective  in  him  of  gentleness 
and  grace,  and  to  heighten  the  enjoyments  of  life  by  the  irre- 
sistable  charms  of  her  society  and  conversation. 

One  cannot  fail  to  have  observed  the  native  gentleness 
and  sensibility  of  females,  which  is  more  and  more  developed 
under  kind  treatment,  and  which,  when  matured  by  proper 
cultivation,  renders  them  so  lovely  and  attractive,  and  gives 
them  such  all  conquering  power  over  our  sex.  The  female 
heart,  like  a  delicate  instrument,  is  strung  with  cords  which 
vibrates  the  softest,  sweetest  melody ;  it  is  a  sacred  depository 
where  treasures  of  love  are  garnered  up  to  be  lavished  with 
a  free  and  liberal  hand.  Nature  and  education  may  account 
for  the  superior  strength  of  aflections  in  females.  Hence 
Filial  Love  takes  deeper  root  in  the  hearts  of  daughters ; 
and,  in  the  progress  of  its  development  it  acquires  all  the 
force  and  potency  of  a  fixed  law  and  principle  of  action. 
Hence   the   constancy   and   ardor   of   daughterly  affection. 


FILIAL    AFFECTION.  13 

When  sickness  blanches  the  cheek  and  dims  the  eye  of  a 
beloved  parent,  the  daughter  watches  by  the  bedside,  and 
never  leaves  it  until  the  bloom  of  health  returns,  or  the  fea- 
tures are  rigid  in  death. 

We  are  happy  to  record  the  fact  that  instances  of  recre- 
ancy in  duty  among  daughters  are  exceedingly  rare.  But 
still,  there  have  not  been  wanting  melancholy  cases  of  it, 
which  may  well  excite  our  wonder  and  lead  the  susceptible 
mind  of  females  to  shrink  with  horror  at  the  thought  of  so 
unnatural  a  crime.  The  want  of  Filial  Affection  in  daugh- 
ters, is  less  excusable  and  more  unnatural,  if  possible,  than 
in  sons.  Parents  feel  that  they  cannot  always  rely  with  un- 
doubting  confidence  upon  the  stability  and  purity  of  a  son^s 
affection.  Not  so  with  their  daughters ;  on  their  constancy 
they  place  the  most  perfect  reliance.  Recreancy  therefore  in 
them,  causes  a  tremendous  shock,  and  spreads  desolation  in 
all  their  paths.  The  afflicted  parent  exclaims  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  soul,  had  it  been  my  son  who  has  thus  wounded  me, 
my  grief  had  not  been  so  poignant ;  but  it  is  my  daughter, 
on  whose  fidelity  and  affection  I  have  securely  relied.  The 
ill-treatment  of  a  son  is  heart-breaking,  that  of  a  daughter, 
fills  the  soul  with  the  bitterness  of  death. 

If  these  remarks  should  meet  the  eye  of  some  daughter, 
who,  under  the  influence  of  an  unsubdued  temper,  is  daily 
embittering  the  happiness  of  her  parents,  we  trust  she  may 
be  led  to  reflect  upon  the  sinfulness  of  her  unfeminine  con- 
duct. Or,  if  they  should  be  perused  by  some  rash  and 
thoughtless  young  lady,  who  is  declining  in  respect  for  her 
parents,  and  pursuing  a  course  calculated  to  destroy  their 
peace,  we  hope  they  may  happily  be  the  means  of  awakeiv 
ing  in  them  a  sense  of  obligation,  and  rekindling  the  dying 
flame  of  Filial  Affection. 

Illustrious  examples  of  Filial  Affection  are  not  wanting  to 
inspire  the  young  with  a  laudable  desire  to  excel  in  this 
noble  virtue.  Titus  Manlius,  who  had  been  treated  with 
great  cruelty  by  his  father,  the  Dictator,  simply  because  he 
had  an  impediment  in  his  speech,  when  his  father  was  im- 


14 


FILIAL    AFFECTION, 


peached  before  the  Roman  people,  armed  himself  with  a 
dagger,  and  having  obtained  admittance  to  the  bedchamber 
of  Pomponius  the  Tribune,  threatened  him  with  instant 
death,  if  he  would  not  bind  himself  by.  an  oath  which  he 
administered  on  the  spot,  that  he  would  desist  from  the  pro- 
secution. The  Tribune,  seeing  the  dagger  glittering  aloft, 
took  the  oath,  and  the  Roman  people,  struck  with  the  noble 
conduct  of  the  youth,  made  him  second  Military  Tribune. 
The  Son  of  Cuossus,  King  of  Lydia,  who  was  born  dumb, 
which  defect  his  father  spared  no  expense  to  cure,  to  no  efiect, 
at  the  time  Sardis  was  taken  by  the  Persians,  seeing  his 
father  like  to  be  slain  b)'-  a  soldier,  unacquainted  with  the 
King's  person,  made  such  an  eifort  to  speak,  that  he  burst 
the  string  of  his  tongue  and  cried  out,  "  Soldier  !  spare 
THE  life  of  Crcesus!"  Philip  of  Macedon,  being  dan- 
gerously wounded  in  an  attempt  to  quell  a  disturbance,  his 
son  Alexander,  then  only  a  youth  of  seventeen,  rushed  to  his 
assistance,  covered  him  with  his  shield,  and  after  killing 
several  of  the  mutineers,  carried  him  off  in  safety.  The 
love  Alexander  evinced  for  his  mother  Olympias,  a  woman 
of  a  turbulent  spirit,  was  most  remarkable.  Receiving  a 
letter  from  Antipator,  bitterly  inveighing  against  her,  he 
said,  Poor  man,  he  is  not  aware  that  one  single  tear  of  my 
mother,  will  obliterate  a  thousand  such  letters.  The  illus- 
trious SciPio  Africanus,  who  had  scarcely  passed  his 
childhood,  seeing  his  father  wounded,  and  liable  to  be  cut  to 
pieces  in  an  engagement  with  Hannibal,  regardless  of  his 
safety,  rushed  into  the  hottest  of  the  battle,  and  carried  him 
off  in  triumph.  In  the  midst  of  the  applause  which  Epa- 
minondas  received  on  account  of  an  illustrious  victory  he 
gained  over  the  Spartans,  at  the  battle  of  Leuctra,  exclaimed, 
"  My  greatest  pleasure  arises  from  the  affectionate  joy  with 
which  the  news  of  my  victory  will  inspire  my  dear  father 
and  mother."  A  no  less  striking  instance  of  Filial  Affection 
is  presented  in  the  last  dying  request  of  Nelson,  the  Hero  of 
Traffalgar.     While  yet  the  thunder  of  his  cannon  was  deal- 


FILIAL    AFFECTION.  15 

ing  destruction  to  his  foes,  and  as  the  notes  of  victory  fell  on 
his  ear,  he  said,  "  Bury  me  by  my  parents." 

Our  own  Washington,  has  furnished  us  with  a  noble 
example  of  FiUal  Affection,  worthy  of  all  praise  and  imita- 
tion. After  his  election  to  the  Presidency,  and  previous  to 
entering  on  the  duties  of  his  office,  he  repaired  to  Fred- 
ricksburgh,  to  take  his  leave  of  his  mother.  It  was  an  affect- 
ing scene.  Washington  observed  the  ravages  of  disease,  and 
tenderly  addressed  her,  telling  her  he  came  to  bid  her  an 
affectionate  farewell,  ere  he  assumed  the  functions  of  his 
office,  and  promising  that  as  soon  as  his  public  duties  would 
permit,  to  hasten  back  to  Virginia.  His  mother  wept  as  she 
said  in  tremulous  tones,  "  My  Son,  you  will  see  me  no  more. 
But  go,  my  Son,  and  fulfil  your  high  destinies,  and  may 
Heaven's  and  a  mother's  blessing  be  upon  you."  Locked 
in  her  arms,  he  leaned  his  head  on  her  shoulder  and  wept. 
Peerless  Mother !  Noble  Son  !  Where  on  earth  was  there 
ever  seen  such  a  Son,  and  such  a  Mother  ? 


A   DREAM. 

I  dreamt  of  lands  where  summer's  happy  reign 
Was  never  known  to  fade ;  of  rippling  lakes, 
Made  musical  by  Zephyrs — on  whose  wings 
Were  borne  the  scent  of  flowers,  newly  blown. 
The  bird's  sweet  song  rang  ceaselessly  through  groves, 
Whose  branches,  meeting,  formed  a  perfect  arch 
Above  its  paths,  quite  shutting  out  the  sun ; — 
Save,  where,  at  inter\'als,  the  parted  leaves 
Gave  one  bright  ray  of  sunlight  to  the  view — 
One  patch  of  heaven's  fair  canopy.     The  breeze, 
Playing  'mid  waving  leaves  and  odorous  flowers. 
Came  on  ray  ear  like  spirit-whisperings. 
Soothing  and  comforting.     Oh !  that  this  life. 
So  full  of  harrowing  cares  and  sad  reverses, 
Shrin'd  but  one  image  of  that  vanished  dream  I 


IG  THE   FUSCHIA. 


THE    FUSCHIA. 

Thou  graceful  flower  on  graceful  stem. 
Of  Flora's  gifts  a  fav'rite  gem ! 
From  trophic  fields  ihou  cam'st  to  cheer 
The  natives  of  a  climate  drear; 
And,  grateful  for  our  fostering  care, 
Hast  learnt  the  wintry  blast  to  beeu-. 

This  beautiful  plant  has  not  been  known  in  this  country 
many  years.  All  the  species  cultivated  in  this  country  are 
natives  of  South  America.  It  is  placed  by  botanists  in  the 
Natural  Order  Onagraceae,  and  in  the  eighth  class  Octandria, 
and  first  order  Monogynia,  of  the  Linnaean  System. 

The  light  and  graceful  appearance  of  the  Fuschia  renders 
it  desirable  in  the  flower  garden  as  a  mere  shrub ;  but  when 
ornamented  with  its  pendant  flowers  of  richest  crimson  dye, 
tiaged  with  purple  or  pale  green,  and  sometimes  shading  into 
a  delicate  cream  color,  with  its  cluster  of  golden  stamens  and 
pistil  it  seems  to  us  one  of  the  most  elegant  and  tasteful  of  all 
the  wonted  inhabitants  of  the  parterre.  To  the  lover  of  flowers 
who  delights  to  cultivate  that  which  he  admires  when  in  its 
prime  beauty,  the  Fuschia  possesses  other  qualities  which  en- 
hance its  value — its  free  growth,  the  ease  with  which  it  is 
propagated,  and  its  general  hardiness. 

ANECDOTE   OF   THE   FUSCHIA. 

At  the  Boston  Horticultural  Exhibition  the  following  anec- 
dote was  related  by  the  Rev.  W.  Choules,  on  the  authority  of 
Mr.  Shepherd,  the  accomplished  conservator  of  the  Botanical 
Gardens  at  Liverpool,  respecting  the  introduction  of  that 
flowery  shrub,  the  Fuschia,  into  the  green-houses  of  Europe. 

Old  Mr.  Lee,  a  well  known  nurseryman  and  florist  at 
Greenwich,  near  London,  about  fifty  years  ago,  was  one  day 
showing  his  variegated  treasures  to  a  person,  who  suddenly 
turned  and  said,  "  AVell,  you  have  not  in  your  whole  collec- 
tion so  pretty  a  flower  as  one  I  saw  to-day  in  a  window  at 
Wapping  " 


THE    FUSCHIA.  17 

• 

"Indeed,  and  what  was  this  phoenix  like?" 

"  Why  the  plant  was  beautiful,  and  the  flowers  hung  down 
like  tassels  from  the  drooping  branches ;  their  color  was  the 
deepest  crimson,  and  in  the  centre  a  fold  of  rich  purple." 

Particular  inquiries  were  made  as  to  the  exact  whereabouts, 
and  Mr.  Lee  posted  otf  to  the  place,  where  he  discovered  the 
object  of  his  pursuit,  and  immediately  pronounced  it  a  new 
PLANT.     He  saw  and  admired  it. 

Entering  the  humble  dwelling,  he  said,  "  My  good  woman, 
this  is  a  nice  plant  of  yours — I  should  like  to  buy  it." 

"Ah,  sir,  I  couldn't  sell  it  for  no  money ;  it  was  brought  to 
me  from  foreign  parts  by  my  husband,  who  has  gone  away 
again  and  I  must  keep  it  for  his  sake." 

"  But  1  must  have  it." 

"  No,  sir ;  I  can't  spare  it." 

"  Here,"  emptying  his  pockets ;  "  here  is  gold,  silver,  and 
copper,"  his  stock  amounting  to  more  than  eight  guineas. 

"  Well-a-day,  this  is  a  power  of  money." 

"  'Tis  yours,  and  the  plant  is  mine,  my  good  woman.  I'll 
give  you  one  of  the  first  young  ones  I  rear,  to  keep  for  your 
husband's  sake  ;  I  will  indeed." 

The  bargain  was  struck,  a  coach  called,  in  which  old  Mr. 
Lee  and  his  apparently  dearly  purchased  flower  was  deposi- 
ted. On  returning  home,  his  first  work  was  to  strip  otf  and 
destroy  every  blossom  and  bud  ;  the  plant  was  divided  into 
small  cuttings,  which  were  forced  into  bark-beds  and  hot- 
beds, and  again  sub-divided.  Every  effort  was  employed  to 
multiply  the  plant.  Mr.  Lee  became  the  delighted  possessor 
of  three  hundred  Fuschias,  all  giving  promise  of  fine  blossoms. 
The  two  which  first  expanded  were  placed  in  his  wiudow. 
A  lady  came  in.  "  Why  Mr.  Lee,  my  dear  Mr.  Lee.  where 
did  you  get  this  charming  flower  ?" 

'"Tis  a  new  thing,  my  lady — pretty,  is  it  not?" 

"Pretty!  'tis  lovely  ;  it's  price?" 

"A  guinea,  your  ladyship;"  and  one  of  the  two  plants  that 
evening  stood  in  beauty  on  her  ladyship's  table  in  her  bou- 
doir. 


19  THE    HOME    OF    THE    SOUL. 

• 

"My  dear   Charlotte,   where  did   you   get   that  elegant 
flower?" 

"Oh,  'tis  a  new  thing ;   I  saw  it  at  old  Mr.  Lee's — pretty, 
is  it  not?" 

" Pretty  !  'tis  beautiful ;  what  did  it  cost?" 
"  Only  a  guinea,  and  there  was  another  left." 
The  visiter's  horses  trotted  off  to  the  suburb,  and  a  third 
beauteous  plant,  graced  the  spot  from  whence  the  first  had 
been  taken.  The  second  guinea  was  paid,  and  the  Fiischia 
adorned  another  drawing  room  of  fashion.  This  scene  was 
repeated  as  new  calls  were  made,  by  persons  attracted  by  the 
beauty  of  the  plant.  Two  plants,  graceful  and  bursting  into 
flower,  were  constantly  seen  on  the  same  spot.  He  glad- 
dened the  faithful  sailor's  wife  with  the  promised  flower,  and 
before  the  season  closed,  nearly  three  hundred  guineas  jingled 
in  his  purse,  the  produce  of  the  single  shrub  from  the  win- 
dow of  Wapping,  as  reward  of  old  Mr.  Lee's  taste,  skill  and 
decision." 


THE   HOME    OF    THE    SOUL. 

BY     F.     S.     KEY. 

Oh  !  where  shall  the  soul  find  relief  from  its  woes, 
A  shelter  of  safety,  a  home  of  repose  .' 
Can  earth's  highest  summit  or  deepest  hid  vale 
Give  a  refuge  no  sorrow  or  sin  can  assail } 

No,  no  !  there's  no  home  ' 

There's  no  home  on  earth,  the  soul  has  no  home  ! 

Shall  it  leave  the  low  earth,  and  soar  to  the  sky. 
And  seek  for  a  rest  in  the  mansions  on  high  ? 
In  the  bright  realms  of  bliss  shall  a  dwelling  be  giv'n. 
And  the  soul  find  a  home  in  the  glory  of  Heaven  ? 

Yes,  yes  !  there's  a  home  I 

There's  a  home  in  high  Heaven,  the  soul  has  a  home 

Oh  !  holy  and  sweet  its  rest  shall  be  there ; 
Free  for  ever  from  sin,  and  sorrow,  and  care ; 
And  the  loud  hallelujahs  of  angels  shall  rise 
To  welcome  the  soul  to  its  home  in  the  skies ; 

Home,  home  !  home  of  the  soul ! 

The  bosom  of  God  is  the  home  of  the  soul ! 


Original 

"PASSING    MOMENTS." 

BY     REV.     S.     W.     WHELPLEY 
With   a  steel   Engraving. 

Moments !  what  fleeting  things  ye  are  ! 

Like  the  swift  arrow  or  the  shooting  star ; 

Like  the  light  vapour  melting  into  air ; 

Like  sparks  ascending  from  a  cheerful  fire, 

No  sooner  are  they  born  than  they  expire  ; 

Like  sparks  which  shine  upon  the  face  of  night. 

The  darkness  only  makes  them  shine  more  bright 

The  "  passing  moments"  quickly  fly, 

Soon  as  they  are  born  they  die. 

Tireless  they  run  and  make  no  stay. 

They  stop  not  in  their  course,  by  night  or  day. 

The  tired  Eagle  seeks  a  place  of  rest. 

Lowers  his  broad  pinions  on  the  mountains  crest, 

But  moments,  like  rivers,  have  a  ceasless  flow — 

Nought  can  arrest  them — on  they  go. 

In  life's  young  morn  the  moments  move  too  slow, 
Whether  to  happiness  they  run  or  wo ; 
In  later  years  the  loiterers  fly  too  fast ; 
Thousands  in  anguish  would  recall  the  past. 
Behold  Lavinia,  beautiful  and  young. 
The  light  of  every  eye,  the  praise  of  every  tongue 
All  the  sweet  influence  of  maternal  power. 
Had  moulded  her  in  childhoods  happy  hour. 
On  her  young  mind  the  dews  of  grace  descended. 
Beauty,  in  her,  with  virtue  sweetly  blended. 
The  paths  of  knowledge  Lavinia  early  trod. 
Those  which  lead  on  to  holiness  and  God. 

Till  now,  the  passing  moments  had  gaily  flown, 
On  her  the  light  of  peace  had  ever  shone. 


20  PASSING    MOMENTS. 

But  now  alas,  a  sudden  change  has  come ; 
A  cloud  is  gathering  o'er  her  iieaceful  home. 
Why  at  that  o])en  window  lingers  she  so  long  ? 
Prefering  solitude  to  the  joyful  throng. 
Though  clad  in  rich  attire,  I>avinia  is  not  gay ; 
Beneath  a  snowy  veil  her  glossy  ringlets  play  : 
Before  her  the  emblematic  hour-glass  stands — 
Why  watches  she  the  silent  falling  sands  ? 
Sadness  sits  pensive  on  her  thoughtful  brow, 
As  apprehensive  of  some  fatal  biow. 
Oh,  could  she  pierce  the  intervening  veil 
How  would  she  her  blighted  hopes  bewail ! ! 
He  comes  not — nor  will  he  ever  come  ; 
Gone  is  her  Marion  to  his  heavenly  home. 
The  summons  came — his  spirit  passed  away  ; 
Darkness  and  gloom  closed  o'er  her  bridal  day. 
The  night  before,  he  dreamed  he  saw  her  stand. 
At  the  same  window,  the  hour-glass  in  her  hand  ; 
He  thought  that  she,  his  last  moments,  was  numbering, 
I        While,  he,  on  his  lone  couch,  was  slumbering. 
He  woke — not  in  vain  was  the  warning  given  ; 
The  Sun  went  down — he  awoke  in  heaven. 

Like  the  sharp  winds  that  nip  the  tender  flower 

Lavinia  is  doomed  to  feel  afflictions  power. 

What  have  those  passing,  transient  moments  wrought  ? 

What  bitter,  trying  lessons  have  they  taught. 

Her  pillow  oft  with  bitter  teai-s  are  wet ; 

Those  "  passing  moments"  she  can  ne'er  forget 

Oft  at  the  same  window  is  she  seen  to  stand. 

With  the  same  hour-glass  in  her  hand ; 

Numbering  the  moments  as  they  swiftly  fly. 

And  teach  her  how  to  live,  and  how  to  die. 

Passing  moments  !  fools  only  will  despise  ; 

From  things  so  transient,  how  much  good  or  evil  rise. 

Joy  comes  upon  their  viewless  wings. 

And  sorrow,  as  from  hidden  fountains,  springs. 

The  moments  that  we  pass  in  deepest  gloom. 

May,  for  the  purest  joys,  l)e  making  room ; 

The  joys,  which,  from  earthly  hopes  arise. 

Are  like  flowers  e.vposed  to  wintry  skies. 

The  HAPPIEST  moments — what  are  they .' — 


\ 


PASSING    MOMENTS.  21 

What  but  short  gleamings  in  a  cloudy  day ; 
The  smile  of  pleasure  on  the  brow  of  pain ; 
Quickly  -we  lose  whate'er  we  think  we  gain. 
]Vlany  and  sad  are  the  disappointments  given, 
To  teach  us  there  are  better  things  in  heaven. 

Passmg  moments  are  the  busy  pioneers. 
Opening  to  other  scenes  in  future  years; 
Foreshadowing  evil  or  foretelling  joy. 
Teaching  how  our  time  we  should  employ. 
Passing  moments,  transient  though  they  be. 
Stand  all  related  to  Eternity. 
Each  one  will  make  its  ages  roll  more  bright. 
Or  lose  itself  in  the  abyss  of  night. 
These  little  monitors  forever  by  our  side, 
Rebuke  alike  our  indolence  and  pride ; 
Expressive  in  their  silence,  as  in  their  flight, 
As  the  revolving  Planets  in  a  stilly  night. 

Moments  are  the  pinions  with  w-hich  we  fly, 

To  worlds  beneath  or  worlds  above  tlie  sky. 

With  these  our  pulses,  like  instruments  keep  time. 

Or,  like  the  evening  bells,  together  chime. 

The  beating  pulses,  the  passing  moments  number. 

Whether  we  are  but  half  awake  or  deeply  slumber. 

On  these  viewless  pinions  we  make  our  way. 

To  realms  of  darkness  or  of  day  ; 

Just  as  the  frail  bark  in  the  wide — open  sea. 

From  hidden  rocks  and  dangerous  quicksands  free. 

Feels  the  quick  stroke  of  the  well  plied  oar. 

Which  drives  it  forward  to  the  shore. 

So,  by  the  passing  moments  we  are  driven, 

Nearer  and  more  near  to  hell  or  heaven. 

Storms  may  beat  frail  vessels  back, 

But  nought  can  drive  us  from  the  destined  track ; 

Billows  may  roll  and  tempests  beat, 

But,  FROM  Eternitt,  there's  no  retreat. 

Whate'er  our  purposes  or  thoughts  may  be. 

We're  on  the  wide,  the  open  Sea; 

The  Land  of  Life  or  Death  lies  straight  before ; 

The  deaf'ning  whirlwinds  may  around  us  roar — 

But  soon  we  must  make  the  predestined  coast, 

Be  numbered  with  the  saved  or  lost. 


>1i2  AN    AFFECTING    TALE. 

AN  AFFECTING  AND  INSTRUCTIVE  TALE. 

RETRIBUTIVE    JUSTICE. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

In  a  little  village  far  removed  from  cities  and  high  roads, 
there  dwelt  a  young  Weaver,  a  devout  and  honest  man,  but 
poor.  His  wife  as  good  and  kind  hearted  as  himself,  assisted 
him  faithfully  at  his  trade,  from  early  morn  till  late  in  the 
evening  by  spooling  yarn,  and  still  these  good  people  had 
oftentimes  nothing  to  eat  for  weeks,  except  potatoes  boiled 
or  roasted,  witii  a  little  salt,  but  they  were  happy,  for  they 
were  warmly  attached  to  one  another,  and  enjoyed  peace  of 
mind.  Heaven  had  bestowed  upon  them  three  promising 
children,  whom  they  brought  up  with  care,  and  instructed 
in  every  thing  good.  All  who  visited  these  excellent  people 
were  charmed  with  their  cheerfulness  and  cordiality,  and 
many  a  one  was  satisfied  to  partake  with  them  of  their  sim- 
ple dish  of  potatoes  in  order  to  enjoy  the  edifying  discourse 
of  the  devout  pair. 

One  pleasant  summer  evening,  a  well  dressed  man  came 
to  the  Weaver's  cottage ;  he  sainted  the  man  and  his  wife 
very  pleasantly,  and  begged  them  not  to  take  it  ill  that  he 
had  disturbed  them  at  so  late  an  hour.  "I  am  journeying  on 
foot  to  Weinsburg,"  he  said,  "  I  am  unacquainted  with  the 
road.  Will  you  not  be  so  kind  as  to  accompany  me  for  a 
short  distance  ?  I  can  then  find  the  way  alone  perhaps,  and 
I  will  reward  you  well  for  your  trouble."  The  Weaver 
straightway  sprang  up  from  his  stool,  drew  on  his  well  worn 
but  neatly  patched  coat,  and  walked  briskly  onward  before 
the  stranger  to  show  him  the  way. 

On  the  road  they  spoke  of  various  matters,  and  the  stranger 
was  very  afiable  and  pleasant.  But  at  last  when  it  had 
grown  perfectly  dark,  the  unknown  stopped  on  a  sudden,  drew 


AN   AFFECTING   TALE.  23 

a  whistle  from  his  pocket,  and  blew  upon  it  so  shrilly  that  the 
poor  Weaver  trembled  and  shuddered  in  every  limb ;  at  the 
same  moment  eight  or  ten  frightful  looking  fellows  came 
from  the  adjacent  thicket,  approaeJ;ied  the  stranger,  who  ap- 
peared to  be  their  Captain,  and  consulted  with  him  about 
the  robbery  of  a  certain  mill,  which  they  purposed  to  break 
into  during  the  night. 

The  Captain  hereupon  presented  the  poor  Weaver  to  them 
as  a  comrade  who  had  newly  joined  the  band.  "He  was 
somewhat  timorous  indeed,"  he  said,  "  but  he  would  soon 
get  over  that."  The  unhappy  man  fell  upon  his  knees,  and 
begged  for  mercy,  but  the  Robber  placing  a  pistol  to  his 
breast,  cried,  "either  go  with  us  or  die!"  Two  of 
the  men  now  took  him  between  them,  and  dragged  him  on- 
ward. About  midnight  they  reached  the  mill,  succeeded  in 
breaking  into  it,  having  left  the  poor  Weaver  and  another 
one  of  the  band  to  keep  watch  without.  But  the  police  had 
got  upon  the  track  of  the  rogues ;  the  measure  of  their  iniqui- 
ties was  now  full ;  the  Captain,  the  Weaver  and  some  others 
were  taken  prisoners  ;  the  rest  escaped. 

In  the  mean  while  the  poor  woman,  the  Weaver's  wife, 
began  to  feel  anxious  and  alarmed ;  her  husband  did  not 
make  his  appearance  during  the  night,  and  when  morning 
came  and  still  he  did  not  return,  her  anxiety  became  excess- 
ive; the  neighbors  went  out  to  seek  after  him,  but  they 
sould  neither  see  nor  hear  any  thing  of  the  unhappy  man. 
The  poor  woman  was  inconsolable,  although  she  was  yet 
dnacquainted  with  the  dreadful  tidings  which  were  soon  to 
reach  her  ears. 

It  was  not  until  evening  that  she  heard  of  the  robbery, 
and  that  the  Weaver  had  been  present  when  the  deed  was 
perpetrated,  that  he  with  the  Captain  of  the  Robbers  and 
others  of  the  band  had  been  arrested,  and  were  now  in  pri- 
son, to  await  their  trial  for  life  or  death.  The  poor  woman 
could  now  no  longer  control  herself  She  placed  her  chil- 
dren in  the  charge  of  a  neighbor,  and  ran  with  all  the  speed 
she  could  to  the  town  where  her  husband  was  confined  in 


24  AN   AFFECTING   TALE. 

prison.  She  went  first  to  the  judge  to  whom  she  related 
what  she  knew  of  the  business,  and  then  fell  at  his  feet,  and 
implored  him  to  liberate  her  unhappy  husband.  But  the 
judge,  although  in  his  heart  he  pitied  her  condition,  could 
not  help  her,  as  the  affair  must  first  be  investigated  in  due 
form  by  process  of  law ;  he  permitted  her,  however,  to  visit 
her  husband. 

The  scene  which  now  followed  is  indescribable.  The 
poor  people  wrung  their  hands,  raised  them  toward  Heaven, 
and  called  upon  God  the  defender  of  innocence.  The  Wea- 
ver then  endeavored  to  console  his  poor  wife,  and  begged 
her  to  keep  firm  in  her  confidence  in  God,  who  of  a  surety 
would  not  forsake  them  in  this  dreadful  need ;  for  although 
he  had  erred,  perhaps,  in  not  choosing  death  rather  than 
accompany  the  Robbers,  yet  the  Omniscient  God  knew  that 
he  had  avoided  death  only  for  the  sake  of  his  family,  and 
that  his  love  for  them  alone  had  rendered  him  weak,  in  the 
hope  that  God  who  knew  his  innocence,  would  rescue  him 
if  he  fell  into  danger.  The  good  people  then  separated, 
strengthened  in  their  confidence  and  reliance  upon  their 
Heavenly  Father,  and  the  woman  returned  again  to  her 
children.  She  visited  her  husband  often  however,  and  at 
every  interview  they  confirmed  each  other  in  faith,  and 
offered  up  prayers. 

But  many  robberies  which  had  followed  closely,  one  upon 
another,  had  constrained  the  magistrates  to  give  greater 
severity  to  the  laws,  and  in  conformity  therewith,  the  poor 
Weaver  had  incurred  the  penalty  of  the  gallows,  as  he  had 
Been  taken  with  the  band.  But  the  worst  of  all  was  this ; 
the  Captain  had  conspired  with  his  comrades  to  bring  the 
Weaver  to  the  gallows,  cost  what  it  might ;  in  pursuance  of 
this  plan  they  had  agreed  together  as  to  what  each  one 
should  testify  with  regard  to  him  at  the  trial.  The  Captain 
maintained  that  the  Weaver  had  been  engaged  in  several 
robberies  with  them  before,  and  then  named  the  places,  and 
the  evidence  of  the  rest  was  in  conformity  with  his.  When 
then  the  judge  examined  them  all  together,  and  the  poor 


AN   AFFECTING   TALE.  25 

Weaver  protested  his  innocence,  the  Robbers  were  able  to 
give  such  an  air  of  probability  to  their  assertions,  that  no 
doubt  remained  of  their  truth,  nay,  they  even  asked  if  he 
had  no  fear  of  God  before  his  eyes  so  to  persist  in  his  denial. 
Thus  one  examination  followed  another,  and  the  innocent 
Weaver  had  no  advocate  but  bitter  tears. 

The  testimony  was  at  last  closed,  and  given  in  to  the 
criminal  tribunal.;  the  latter  pronounced  sentence  that  the 
"Weaver  should  he  hanged  first,  and  then  the  others,  after 
they  had  witnessed  the  execution  of  their  companion  ;  with 
this  difference  however,  that  their  bodies  were  to  be  broken 
on  the  wheel  and  quartered.  After  the  prince  had  affixed 
his  signature  to  the  sentence,  it  was  made  known  to  the  pris- 
oners, who  were  informed  that  it  would  be  carried  into  exe- 
cution within  three  days. 

The  compassion  of  the  whole  country  was  excited  for  the 
Weaver,  for  every  one  thought  him  innocent.  The  Clergy- 
nrian  who  had  married  him,  often  visited  him,  and  found  him, 
as  will  readily  be  imagined,  in  a  most  disconsolate  condition. 
He  endeavored  to  strengthen  him  by  the  consolations  of  reli- 
gion, and  prayed  with  him  with  great  fervency,  so  that  the 
good  man  at  last  took  courage,  and  resigned  himself  to  the 
will  of  God.  His  wife  cried  loudly  to  Heaven  for  rescue,  and 
on  the  day  before  the  execution,  she  ran  in  haste  with  stream- 
ing hair  to  the  capitol,  and  desired  to  speak  Avith  the  prince. 

Now  it  chanced  that  at  the  prince's  table  at  dinner,  the 
story  of  a  poor  man,  the  father  of  a  family  had  been  related, 
who  although  innocent,  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  severity  of 
the  laws.  This  gave  those  present  occasion  to  speak  of  the 
Weaver,  for  the  affair  was  known  at  court,  and  the  prince 
was  not  without  his  doubts  on  the  subject.  The  woman 
was  instantly  admitted.  Her  amiable,  honest  countenance, 
and  her  grief  spoke  with  such  force,  that  tears  came  into  the 
princess'  eyes,  and  she  felt  convinced  of  the  man's  innocence. 
She  immediately  took  the  poor  woman  by  the  hand  and  led 
her  to  the  prince. 

He  al.^o  was  moved   to  tears  and  said,    "  Good  woman, 


26  AN    AFFECTING   TALE. 

your  husband's  life  shall  be  saved ;  I  will  at  once  send  some 
one  to  carry  an  order  to  this  effect  to  the  judge."  It  was 
high  time  indeed,  for  it  was  now  evening,  and  at  nine  o'clock 
on  the  following  morning,  the  Weaver  was  to  be  led  to  the 
gallows.  The  courier  had  in  the  meanwhile,  to  ride  thirty 
miles.  The  prince  then  ordered  refreshments  to  be  placed 
before  the  woman,  who,  when  she  had  partaken  of  them, 
hurried  away  with  a  heart  filled  with  joy,  uttering  loud 
thanksgivings  to  God.  But  she  had  scarcely  run  two  leagues 
when  she  could  go  no  farther,  and  was  obliged  to  rest  for 
some  hours,  so  that  she  did  not  reach  the  town  until  ten 
o'clock  the  following  morning. 

But  the  courier  who  had  been  dispatched  to  bear  the  par- 
don to  the  Weaver,  fell  from  his  horse,  and  dislocated  his 
ankle,  so  that  he  was  unable  to  continue  his  journey ;  for- 
tunately he  was  near  a  post  house,  which  he  reached  with 
difficulty,  and  thei'e  remained.  He  gave  the  letter  of  pardon 
to  the  postmaster,  who  sent  it  on  by  a  postillion.  Its  arrival 
was  in  this  way  retarded  for  several  hours. 

The  clock  struck  nine  ;  the  knell  of  the  criminals  echoed 
in  slow  and  solemn  sounds  over  the  city ;  first  appeared  the 
officers  of  the  police,  then  came  the  Weaver  accompanied  by 
a  clergyman,  next  the  Captain  of  the  band,  with  the  remain- 
ing prisoners,  and  last  of  all  the  executioner  and  his  assist- 
ants. A  great  crowd  of  people  from  the  city  and  from  the 
surrounding  country  followed  the  procession,  which  escorted 
by  a  company  of  armed  soldiers,  moved  slowly  toward  the 
scaffold.  The  weaver  was  silent ;  his  grief  had  neither  tears 
nor  speech ;  but  many  observed  that  the  Robber  Captain 
watched  him  with  great  attention.  The  procession  now 
reached  the  gallows,  and  the  Weaver  was  led  up  the  steps. 
At  this  instant  a  postillion  came  riding  up  at  a  gallop ;  he 
placed  in  the  hands  of  the  judge  who  was  present  a  large 
letter.  The  latter  tore  it  open  in  haste,  and  exclaimed, 
"pardon!  pardon  for  the  Weaver!"  Shouts  of  joy  now 
arose  from  the  crowd,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  silence 
could  be  obtained. 


AN    AFFECTING    TALE.  27 

The  Robber  Captain  now  asked  permission  of  the  judge  to 
address  the  assembled  crowd.  After  it  had  been  granted 
him,  he  mounted  the  scaffold,  and  waved  with  his  hand  to 
oDtain  silence.  All  listened  in  breathless  stillness,  and  the 
Robber  exclaimed  with  a  loud  voice.  "There  is  a  God 
AND  HE  IS  JUST !  Oncc  I  did  not  believe  this,  and  I  rioted 
in  sin  and  crime.  Things  often  happened  during  my  wicked 
career,  however,  from  which  I  might  have  known  that  there 
was  a  God  who  ruled  this  world.  I  wished  to  be  assured  of 
this  however,  and  1  thought  if  I  could  bring  a  devout  and  in- 
nocent man  to  my  band,  and  could  compel  him  to  participate 
in  our  crimes,  that  this  Just  God,  if  there  was  one  indeed, 
could  not  possibly  sutler  tliis  good  and  innocent  man  to 
undergo  a  like  punishment  with  ourselves.  He  could  not 
[lelp  but  save  him,  and  so  it  has  actually  proved,  for  the 
Weaver  is  perfectly  innocent,  and  is  a  pious  and  upright  man. 
I  have  made  the  trial  with  him,  and  God  has  rescued  him. 
Yes,  truly !  there  is  a  God  and  a  just  God  !" 

He  now  prayed  that  he  might  be  taken  back  to  prison,  de- 
claring that  he  had  some  important  confessions  to  make. 
He  would  then,  he  said,  submit  willingly  to  his  fate,  which 
he  had  in  truth,  deserved.  The  Robber's  request  was  granted ; 
he  and  his  companions  were  led  back  to  prison  again,  and 
placed  in  chains. 

During  this  while  the  bystanders  encouraged  the  Weaver, 
and  provided  him  with  refreshments ;  and  as  he  was  making 
his  way  out  of  the  crowd,  a  number  of  young  men  approach- 
ed him,  raised  him  upon  their  shoulders,  and  carried  him 
into  the  town;  others  collected  money  for  him,  so  that  he 
received  several  hundred  crowns.  As  they  were  bearing  him 
through  the  streets,  his  wife  reached  the  town  after  her  toil- 
some journey;  she  saw  the  gathering  of  the  people,  and 
heard  the  ciy  "  they  are  bringing  the  Weaver !  he  has 
received  a  pardon  !"  and  at  the  same  moment  she  beheld  him 
borne  aloft  on  the  shoulders  of  the  young  men,  and  heard 
the  joyful  shouts  of  the  crowd.  With  sobs  of  delight,  she 
followed  the  train  into  the  iim. 


28  WHO    WILL    GET    THE    PRIZE, 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  meeting  which  ensued  be- 
tween the  husband  and  wife.  They  were  driven  home  in  a 
carriage  for  their  heavy  afflictions  had  so  weakened  them 
that  they  could  not  perform  the  journey  on  foot.  The  money 
which  the  Weaver  had  obtained  placed  him  above  all  want, 
and  God's  blessing  went  with  him. 

This  event  happened  in  the  year  1788. 


ETERNITY. 


Extract  from  au  UnpubliBlied  Poem ; 


BY    HEN'RY    VV.    LONGFELLOW. 

And  yet  thou  hast  not  left  thyself  without 
A  w  itaess  ;  all  we  hear,  and  feel,  and  see, 

VVitliin  us  aud  around,  forbid  to  doubt. 
Yet  speak  so  darkly  and  mysteriously 

Of  what  we  are  and  shall  he  evermore. 

We  doabt,  and  yet  believe,  and  tremble  and  adore  ! 

Thanks  be  to  God  ! — the  glorious  day  will  come. 
Wherein  the  soul  shall  see,  and  feel,  and  know  J 

Eartli — earth  is  not  our  everlasting  home, 

But  through  the  shadows  of  this  world  below. 

The  spirit  journeys  onward  to  the  sky, 

A  wayworn  pilgrim  of  eternity. 

Eternity  !  no  mortal  e'er  could  break 

Thy  seal  of  mystery,  save  him  alone 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos,  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 

And  in  his  vision  saw  a  great  white  throne ; 
And  him  who  sat  thereon,  before  whose  face 
The  earth  and  heaven  fled,  and  found  no  place  ! 

Eternity  !  O  let  the  Dead  again 

Put  on  their  mortal  garments  and  return — 

Give  back  1  give  back  thy  dark  and  shadowy  train. 
Once  more,  that  they  may  tell,  in  words  that  burn, 

Thy  fearful  mysteries  of  good  and  ill — 

A  voice  within  us  cries,  Oh  1  Peace  I  be  stilL 


THE    SPIRIT    RIVER.  29 

Original. 

THE   SPIRIT   RIVER. 

BY     A.     W.     HOLDEN. 

A  river  flows  thro'  a  sunny  land. 

Its  waters  are  pure  and  bright, 
As  they  smoothly  glide  o'er  the  golden  sand. 
Or  ripple  across  the  '  coral  strand,' 

As  sheen  as  a  thing  of  light 

And  fairy  Isles  like  gems  are  laid. 

Within  its  silvery  zone. 
With  grot,  and  bower,  and  flow'ring  glade, 
And  woodlands  too  with  tempting  shade. 

In  wild  profusion  thrown. 

And  gaily  now  with  shout  and  song, 

And  light  sails  fluttering  wide. 
Shallops  and  barks,  a  myriad  throng 
With  living  freight,  are  floating  along 

The  breast  of  the  crystal  tide. 

But  little  reck  those  mariners. 

The  perils  of  the  way, 
Of  rocks  and  whirlpools,  reefs  and  bars, — 
But  on  they  move,  like  princely  cars 

To  festive  pageantry. 

Light  wanton  zephyrs,  flit  along 

Those  Isles,  with  wooing  breath ; 
And  pleasures  train  with  siren  song. 
Are  waiting  there  to  lead  that  throng, 

To  misery  and  death. 

They  stop  to  roam  o'er  each  fair  Isle, 

With  Mirth  and  Revelry ; 
And  Wit  and  Beauty,  Wealth  and  Wile, 
With  sparkling  eye,  and  winning  smile. 

Still  lure  them  from  their  way. — 


80  THE    SPIRIT   RIVER. 

A  tempest  Tages — tost  and  thrown. 

Upon  the  rolling  wave. 
Those  light  frail  vessels  one  by  one. 
With  shout  and  scream  and  dying  groan. 

Sink  to  a  wat'ry  grave. — 

That  stream  is  life's  bright  sunny  tide. 

Those  frail  barks,  hopes  of  joy, 
And  singing,  gaily  on  we  glide. 
But  sorrow's  tempest  cannot  bide. 
And  so  we  sink  and  die. 


A   WORD    TO    GENTLEMEK. 

"  It  chills  my  Wood  to  feear  the  blest  Sapreme 
Rudely  appealed  to  on  each  trifling  theme ! 
Maintain  yoor  rank  ;  vulgarity  despise  ; 
To  SWEAR  is  neither  brave,  polite,  nor  wise. 
You  would  not  swear  upon  the  bed  of  death : 
Reflect,  your  Maker  now  may  stop  your  breath." 


BEWARE. 

It  is  a  little  sin ;  it  is  a  trifle.  Say  not  so. — Beware.  A 
slight  scratch  may  produce  more  suflering  than  the  amputa- 
tion of  a  leg.  The  hrave  warrior  who  has  slain  his  thousand 
in  hattle  may  be  strangled  by  a  hair.  The  ocean  rocks  that 
founder  many  a  gallant  bark,  are  the  work  of  a  little  worm. 
A  single  look  from  one  we  devotedly  love,  may  plant  daggers 
in  our  bosom.  A  word  may  ruin  us.  That  glass  of  cordial, 
just  raised  to  the  lips  of  a  young  man  may  cause  his  destruc- 
tion. Beware  of  trifles.  Look  to  the  end.  In  n©  other  way 
can  you  be  sure  of  safety  and  prosperity. 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  AND  THE  WIFE. 


A  LADY  should  appear  to  think  well  of  books,  rather  than  to  speak 
well  of  them ;  she  may  show  the  engaging  light  that  good  taste  and 
sensibility  always  diffuse  over  conversation  ;  she  may  give  instances 
of  great  and  affecting  passages,  because  they  show  the  fineness  of  her 
imagination,  or  the  goodness  of  her  heart ;  but  all  criticism,  beyond 
this,  sits  awkwardly  upon  her.  She  should  know  more  than  she  dis- 
plays, because  it  gives  her  unaffected  powers  in  discourse  ;  for  the 
same  reason  that  a  man's  efforts  are  easy  and  firm,  when  his  action 
requires  not  his  full  strength.  She  should,  by  habit,  form  her  mmd  to 
the  noble  and  pathetic  ;  and  she  should  have  an  acquaintance  with  the 
fine  arts,  because  they  enrich  and  beautify  the  imagination ;  but  she 
should  carefully  keep  them  out  of  view  in  the  shape  of  learning,  and 
let  them  run  through  the  easy  vein  of  unpremeditated  thought ;  for  this 
reason,  she  should  seldom  use,  and  not  always  appear  to  understand, 
the  terms  of  art ;  the  gentlemen  will  occasionally  explain  them  to  her. 
[  knew  a  lady  of  address,  who,  when  any  term  of  art  was  mentioned, 
always  turned  to  the  gentleman  she  had  a  mind  to  compliment,  and, 
with  uncommon  grace,  asked  him  the  meaning ;  by  this  means,  she 
gave  men  the  air  of  superiority  they  like  so  well,  while  she  held  them 
in  chains.  No  humor  can  be  more  delicate  than  this,  which  plays 
upon  the  tyrant,  who  requires  an  acknowledgment  of  superiority  of 
sense,  as  well  as  power,  irom  the  weaker  sex ! 


So  THE    YOUNG    LADY    AND    THE    WIFE. 

A  lady  sporting  her  learning,  and  introducing  her  verses  upon  all 
occasions,  reminds  one  of  a  woman,  who  has  a  fine  hand  and  arm,  a 
pretty  foot,  or  a  beautiful  set  of  teeth,  and  who  is  not  satisfied  with 
letting  them  appear  as  nature  and  custom  authorize,  but  is  perpetually 
intruding  her  separate  perfections  into  notice.  If  a  woman  neglects 
the  duties  of  her  family  and  the  care  of  her  children — if  she  is  less 
amiable  as  a  wife,  mother,  or  mistress,  because  she  has  talents  or 
acquirements,  it  would  be  far  better  if  she  were  without  them ;  and 
when  she  displays  that  she  has  more  knowledge  than  her  husband, 
she  shows,  at  least,  that  no  woman  can  have  less  sense  than  her- 
self. 

There  is  no  great  need  of  enforcing  upon  an  unmarried  lady  the  ne- 
cessity of  being  agreeable  ;  nor  is  there  any  great  art  requisite  in  a 
youthful  beauty  to  enable  her  to  please.  Nature  has  multiplied  at- 
tractions around  her.  Youth  is  in  itself  attractive.  The  freshness  of 
budding  beauty  needs  no  aid  to  set  it  off;  it  pleases  merely  because  it 
is  fresh,  and  budding,  and  beautiful.  But  it  is  for  the  married  state 
that  a  woman  needs  the  most  instruction,  and  in  which  she  should  be 
most  on  her  guard  to  maintain  her  powers  of  pleasing.  No  woman 
can  expect  to  be  to  her  husband  all  that  he  fancied  her  when  a  lover. 
Men  are  always  duped,  not  so  much  by  the  arts  of  the  sex,  as  by 
their  own  imaginations.  They  are  always  wooing  goddesses,  and 
marrying  mere  mortals.  A  woman  should,  therefore,  ascertain  what 
was  the  charm  that  rendeted  her  so  fascinating  when  a  girl,  and  en- 
deavor to  keep  it  up  when  she  has  become  a  wife.  One  great  thing 
undoubtedly  was,  the  chariness  of  herself  and  her  conduct,  which  an 
umnarried  female  always  observes.  She  should  maintain  the  same 
niceness  and  reserve  in  her  person  and  habits,  and  endeavor  still  to 
preserve  a  freshness  and  delicacy  in  the  eye  of  her  husband.  She 
should  remember  that  the  province  of  a  woman  is  to  be  wooed,  not  to 
woo  ;  to  be  caressed,  not  to  caress.  Man  is  an  ungrateful  being  in 
love  ;  bounty  loses  rather  than  wins  him. 


DIFFERENT   IDEAS    OF    BEAUTY. 

It  13  difficult  to  form  any  punctual  notions  of  beauty.  Qualities  of 
personal  attraction,  the  most  opposite  imaginable,  are  each  looked 
upon  as  beautiful  in  different  countries,  or  by  different  people  in  the 
same  country.  "  That  which  is  deformity  at  Paris,  may  be  beauty  at 
Pekin !" 

"  Beauty,  thou  wild  fantastic  ape. 


Who  dost  in  every  country  change  thy  shape ; 

Here  hlack,  there  brown,  here  tawny,  and  there  white  !" 

The  frantic  lover  sees  "  Helen's  beauty  in  an  Egyptian  brow."  The 
black  teeth,  the  painted  eyelids,  the  plucked  eyebrows,  of  the  Chinese 
fair,  have  admirers  ;  and  should  their  feet  be  large  enough  to  walk 
upon,  their  owners  are  regarded  as  monsters  of  ugliness.  The 
Lilliputian  dame  is  the  beau  ideal  of  perfection  in  the  eyes  of  a 
northern  gallant ;  while  in  Patagonia  they  have  a  Polyphemus-standard 
of  beauty.  Some  of  the  North  American  nations  tie  four  boards  round 
the  heads  of  their  children,  and  thus  squeeze  them,  while  the  bones 
are  yet  tender,  into  a  square  form.  Some  prefer  the  form  of  a  sugar- 
loaf ;  others  have  a  quarrel  with  the  natural  shortness  of  the  ears,  and 
therefore  from  infancy  those  are  drawn  down  upon  the  shoulders  ! 

With  the  modern  Greeks,  and  other  nations  on  the  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean,  corpulency  is  the  perfection  of  form  in  a  woman  ;  and 
those  very  attributes  which  disgust  the  western  European,  form  the 
attractions  of  an  oriental  fair.  It  was  from  the  common  and  admired 
shape  of  his  countrywomen,  that  Rubens  in  his  pictures  delights  so 
much  in  a  vulgar  and  odious  plumpness :  when  this  master  was  desi- 
rous to  represent  the  "  beautiful,"  he  had  no  idea  of  beauty  under  two 
hundred  weight.     His  very  Graces  are  all  fat. 

The  hair  is  a  beautiful  ornament  of  woman,  but  it  has  always  been 
a  disputed  point  which  color  most  becomes  it.  We  account  red  hair 
unhandsome ;        but  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  it  found  admirers,  and 


M 


AMERICAN  BOOK  OF  BEAUTY. 


was  in  fashion.  Mary  of  Scotland,  though  she  had  exquisite  hair  of 
her  own,  wore  red  fronts.  Cleopatra  was  red-haired  ;  and  the  Vene- 
tian ladies  at  this  day  counterfeit  yellow  hair. 

But  where  are  we  to  detect  its  especial  source  of  power  ?  Often 
forsooth  in  a  dimple,  sometimes  beneath  the  shade  of  an  eyelid,  or 
perhaps  among  the  recesses  of  a  little  fantastic  curl !  The  fit  of  admi- 
ration seizes  us  without  warning,  and  either  disposition,  or  our  weak- 
ness, favors  the  surprise.  One  look,  one  glance,  may  fix  and  deter- 
mine us. 

Few  are  there  that  can  withstand  "  the  sly  smooth  attraction  of  a 
fair  young  face." — "  It  calls  the  cynic  from  his  tub  to  woo."  Led  by 
no  sense  as  they  are  by  the  eyes,  you  may  see  the  most  sober  men 
content  to  lock  up  their  wishes  in  the  meshes  of  a  little  auburn  hair. 
Many  could  demonstrate  to  perfection  the  eligibility  of  freedom  to 
servitude,  and  yet  are  practically  too  weak  to  resist  the  sensual  allure- 
ments of  some  pretty  casuist :  a  touch,  soft  as  the  brush  from  the 
pinions  of  the  dove,  winds  them  to  her  purpose. 

"  Fair  tresses  man's  imperiaJ  race  ensnare. 
And  beauty  draws  us  -mXh.  a  single  hair !" 

,  We  seek  not  here  to  revolt  the  enthusiasm  of  any  man,  or  to  warp 
any  natural  bias  that  may  be  felt  toward  the  daughters  of  men  ;  yet 
how  far  an  unmitigated  dotage  upon  beauty  is  reasonable,  no  one  in  his 
sober  senses  can  hesitate  to  decide.  'Tis  a  composition  we  can  all 
admire  ;  it  exists  doubtless  for  peculiar  ends  ;  but  let  it  maintain  its 
legitimate  influence,  and  be  bounded  there.  The  privilege  of  being 
first  heard,  it  is  always  likely  to  have  ;  but  must  it  always  continue  to 
take  place  of  everything,  ordinary  and  extraordinary  ? 

"For  -what  admirest  thou,  what  transports  thee  bo? 
An  outside  ?     Fair,  no  douht    and  worthy  well 
Thy  cherishing,  thy  honoring,  and  thy  love  — 
Not  thy  auhjeotion '" 

Yet  this  influence,  vast  as  it  is,  is  but  for  a  while  ;  it  is  "  a  short- 
lived tyranny."  It  is  an  electrifier,  the  power  of  which  only  endures 
while  an  adventitious  property  abides  with  it.  The  holyday-time  of 
beauty  has  its  date,  and  'tis  the  penalty  of  nature  that  girls  must  fade 
Mid  wither,  as  their  grandmothers  have  done  before  them 


DIFFERENT    IDEAS    OF    BEAUTY IVOMAN  S    INFLUENCE,  ETC.        35 

The  venerable  abbey,  and  aged  oak,  are  the  more  beautiful  in  their 
decay  ;  and  many  are  the  charms  around  us,  both  of  art  and  nature, 
that  may  still  linger  and  please.  The  breaking  wave  is  most  graceful 
at  the  moment  of  its  dissolution ;  the  sun,  when  setting,  is  still  beauti- 
ful and  glorious,  and  though  the  longest  day  must  have  its  evening, 
yet  is  the  evening  as  beautiful  as  the  morning ;  the  light  deserts  us, 
but  it  is  to  visit  us  again ;  the  rose  retains  after-charms  for  sense,  and 
though  it  fall  into  decay,  it  renews  its  glories  at  the  approach  of  anoth- 
er spring.  But  for  woman  there  is  no  second  May  !  "  Stat  sua  suique 
dies."  To  each  belongs  her  little  day ;  and  time,  that  gives  new 
whiteness  to  the  swan,  gives  it  not  unto  woman  ! 

WOMAN'S  INFLUENCE. 
Like  the  olive-tree  —  said  to  fertilize  the  surrounding  soil  —  there 
are  some  few  ministering  angels  in  female  guise  among  us  all  and 
about  our  paths,  who  sweetly  serve  to  cheer  and  adorn  life.  Our 
amusements  are  insipid  unless  they  contribute  to  them ;  our  efforts  of 
noblest  ambition  feeble,  unless  they  applaud  —  its  rewards  valueless, 
unless  they  share  them !  There  are,  too,  some  rude  spirits  in  the 
world,  whose  bolder  natart^emale  influence  admirably  serves  to  refine 
and  temper  ;  and  perhaps  it  is  not  an  extreme  eulogium  of  the  poet — 
that  without  that  influence  many  a  man  had  been  "  a  brute  indeed  !" 
The  concurrence  of  both  sexes  is  as  necessary  to  the  perfection  of 
our  being,  as  to  the  existence  of  it :  man  may  make  a  fine  melody,  but 
woman  is  also  required  to  make  up  harmony  ! 

SELFISHNESS 

If,  in  the  wide  catalogue  of  human  faults,  there  be  one  more  than 
another  which  we  would  cover  with  our  hand  as  the  most  unsightly 
blot  upon  human  nature,  it  is  the  vice  of  selfishness.  There  are  faults 
that  may  be  wept  over,  but  this  is  not  one  of  them  ;  and  crimes,  spring- 
ing directly  from  the  passions,  seem  almost  venial  compared  with  that 
habitual,  undisguised  self-worship  which  is  the  offspring  of  a  mean 
soul.     'Tis  a  blemish  that  stands  out  grossly  to  the  eye — more 

"  Than  lying,  vainness,  tatblirig,   drrnkenness. 
Or  ANT  taint  of  vice,  •whose  strong  corruption 
Inherits  our  frail  blood  I" 


36  TOUCHING    ANECDOTE. 


TOUCHING  ANECDOTE. 


During  the  French  Revolution  Mademoiselle  Sombniil  had 
been  eight  days  with  her  father  in  prison  when  the  unhappy- 
massacres  of  September  commenced.  After  many  prisoners 
had  been  murdered,  and  the  sight  of  blood  continually  flow- 
ing seemed  only  to  increase  the  rage  of  the  assassins,  while 
the  wretched  inmates  of  the  prison  endeavored  to  hide  them- 
selves from  the  death  that  hovered  over  them.  Mademoiselle 
Sombruil  rushed  into  the  presence  of  the  murderers  who  had 
seized  her  father.  "  Barbarians !"  she  cried,  "  hold  your 
hands,  he  is  my  father  !"  She  threw  herself  at  their  feet.  In 
one  moment  she  seized  the  hand  which  was  lifted  against 
her  father,  and  in  the  next  she  offered  her  own  person  to  the 
sword,  so  placing  herself  that  the  parent  could  not  be  struck 
but  through  the  body  of  his  child.  So  much  courage  and 
filial  affection  in  so  young  a  girl  for  a  moment  diverted  the 
attention  of  the  assassins.  She  perceived  that  they  hesitated, 
and  seized  on  the  favorable  opportunity.  While  she  entreated 
for  her  father's  life  one  of  the  monsters  proposed  the  following 
condition :  "  Drink,"  said  he,  "  a  glass  of  blood  and  save  your 
father."  She  shuddered,  and  retreated  some  paces  ;  but  filial 
affection  gained  the  ascendency,  and  she  yielded  to  the  horri- 
ble condition.  "Innocent  or  guilty,"  said  one  of  those  who 
performed  the  ofiice  of  judge,  "  It  is  unworthy  of  the  people 
to  bathe  their  hands  in  the  blood  of  the  old  man,  since  they 
must  first  destroy  this  virtuous  girl."  A  cry  of  "  pardon !" 
was  heard.  The  daughter,  revived  by  this  signal  of  safety, 
threw  herself  into  her  father's  trembling  arms,  which  scarcely 
had  power  to  press  her  to  his  bosom,  being  overcome  by  such 
powerful  aflection  and  so  providential  a  deliverance.  Even 
the  most  outrageous  assassins  were  unable  to  restrain  their 
tears ;  and  the  father  and  daughter  were  triumphantly  con- 
ducted to  a  place  of  comfort  and  safety. 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.     37 


"Tkka  therefon  no  thought  for  the  morrow;   for  the  morrow  shall  take  thought  for  the 
Aings  of  itaelf."    Matt.  vi.  31. 

I  WOULD  not  turn  aside  the  veil 

That  hides  the  future  from  my  eye, 
And  through  the  mists  of  distant  years 
Discern  my  coming  destiny  ; — 
I  would  not  know 
If  joy  or  woe 
Shall  mark  the  moments  as  they  fly. 

By  memory's  aid  I  backward  glance,— 

And  as  I  view  my  past  career. 
And  mark  the  contents  of  its  page, — 
A  varied  picture  meets  me  there. 
In  light  and  shade 
It  stands  portrayed, 
Here  bright  with  joy,  there  dark  witti  c&ie. 

And  thus  shall  be  my  future  life— 
A  cup  of  mingled  grief  and  joy ; 
A  child  of  earth  can  never  find 
Pure  happiness  without  alloy : 
Our  strength  is  frail. 
And  pleasures  fail, 
And  soon  the  wearied  mind  will  dcy. 

I  know  my  fate  is  in  His  hands 

Whose  wisdom  guides  the  rolling  year, 
Whose  power  upholds  Creation's  plan, 
Whose  mercy  saves  from  dangers  near ; 
In  His  control 
I  leave  my  all, 
Safe  in  his  love,  why  should  I  fear? 

Ada. 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS 

BT   liATTRA   LOVELL. 

WooDVALE !     What  a  host  of  sweet  recollections  does  the 
name  awaken.     I  see  the  gate,  venerable  in  its  antiquity 


gg     LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS. 

which,  opening  on  the  public  road,  warns  the  passing  travel- 
ler that  beyond  "  the  dark  pine  grove"  there  lies  a  home. 
Once  more  I  follow,  the  windings  of  the  green  and  shady 
lane,  and  emerge  at  length  before  the  grassy  lawn  and  the 
white  mansion  over  which  the  clustering  multiflora  has 
flung  its  clasping  tendrils.  I  see  the  tall  locusts  before  the 
dwelling,  the  little  garden  opening  from  the  lawn,  the  pas- 
tures in  the  distance,  the  various  forms  of  animal  life  which 
people  the  scene.  Come,  and  let  us  go  into  the  little  garden 
and  see  the  blossoming  trees  and  the  rose  bushes.  Then  we 
will  wander  down  the  oak  grove  behind  the  house  to  the 
spring.  But  see,  on  the  hill  where  the  grove  is  thickest, 
how  profusely  the  dead  autumnal  leaves  lie  scattered.  And 
beneath  them,  in  a  corner  far  removed  from  the  sound  of 
childish  mirth  or  the  hum  of  busy  labor,  are  the  graves  of 
the  family.  There,  side  by  side,  sleep  the  aged  grandfather, 
— a  man  of  God,  gone  to  his  reward — the  father  and  mother, 
the  eldest  and  youngest  of  their  lovely  children — within  six 
months  consigned  to  the  grave.  Consumption  fastened  upon 
that  sweet  blossom  in  early  womanhood — beauty,  accom- 
plishments, earthly  affection  could  not  save  it  from  the  de- 
stroyer— and  the  opening  bud  left  in  a  bleak  world  without 
the  support  of  the  parent  stem  withered  too  and  died  ere  its 
blossoming — withered? — ah  no!  in  all  its  freshness  and 
promise  it  was  transplanted  to  bloom  with  the  dear  ones 
gone  before,  in  the  Paradise  of  God.  Four  orphan  bereaved 
ones  are  still  left  to  mourn.  They  have  clung  together 
through  all  their  trials ;  the  oldest  a  lovely  girl  of  eighteen, 
and  the  youngest  a  little  fairy  of  five  years.  I  see  now  before 
me  that  sweet  innocent  face,  that  gentle  and  artless  smile, 
those  winning  ways  that  so  touched  the  heart  of  the  stran- 
ger. Ye  are  scattered  far  and  wide,  away  from  the  home 
of  your  childhood,  the  hearth  of  your  ancestry — Nay  more ! 
that  home  must  pass  into  the  hands  of  strangers — and  now 
ye  take  of  the  happy  haunts  of  your  early  years,  of  the 
graves  of  your  kindred,  a  final  farewell. 

Not  long  since  I  received  a  letter  from  Sophia,  in  which 
she  says,  "  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you — write  me  a  '  Fare- 
well to  Wood  vale.'  We  are  about  to  part  with  our  dear  sweet 
old  home,  and  I  cannot  leave  it  without  taking  my  farewell 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.     39 

in  verse."     I  could  not  do  otherwise  than  comply,  though  I 
felt  inadequate  to  the  task — and  so  I  have  written  a 

FAREWELL    TO     WOODVALE. 

Green  wave  the  oaks  around  thee,  home  "beloved, 
Where  oft  in  infancy  our  footsteps  roved  ; 
Bright  glow  the  roseate  clusters  of  the  vine, 
Whose  clinging  tendrils  round  thy  casements  twintt. 
Sweet  is  the  murmur  of  the  summer  breeze, 
Which  softly  sighs  amid  the  waving  trees ; 
Over  the  green-robed  lawn,  returning  spring 
Shall  bid  tlie  locusts  their  white  blossoms  fling ; 
Still  shall  the  birds  their  joyous  piusic  wake. 
From  every  waving  bough,  and  spray,  and  brakes 
Yet  to  each  shady  nook  and  quiet  dell. 
Sadly  we  bid  a  long  and  last  fareweJl. 

Farewell,  green  haunts  of  careless  infancy, 
Where  glad  hearts  wandered  forth  with  steps  as  li«e, 
Ye  are  not  changed  ;  round  each  familiar  spot. 
Cluster  sweet  memories  ne'er  to  be  forgot ; 
The  music  of  loved  voices  still  we  hear. 
Forms  well-remembered  to  our  sight  appear. 
Each  verdant  dell,  green  tree,  and  grassv  knol'.. 
Ilath  its  own  secret  history  to  the  soirl, 
Filling  our  eyes  i^nth  tears,  as  now  to  you 
Beloved  horae,  we  bid  a  last  adieu. 

Beneath  the  shadows  of  the  tall  oaks  lying. 

In  quiet  slumber  those  who  loved  us  rest ; 

When  'neath  autumnal  skies  the  foliage  dying, 

Hath  strewn  with  its  bright  leaves  the  green  ear*^'.  breast. 

Mingling  in  music  of  a  happier  sphere, 

No  more  tlieir  voices  fall  on  mortal  ear  ; 

Here  hoary  age  and  helpless  infancy, 

Beside  each  other  in  the  dark  grave  lie. 

In  the  dark  grave  !  oh  no  I  the  lifeless  olsy. 

There  waite  the  summons  of  the  final  da)' ; 

The  spirits  of  our  lost  ones  dwell  above. 

In  regions  of  eternal  ligiit  and  love. 

Father  in  Heaven  !  oh,  hear  the  orphan's  prayer, 
Grant  them  thy  strength,  life's  future  ills  to  bear, 
Be  thou  their  friend,  their  help  in  years  to  come, 
And  safely  guide  them  to  a  hieavenly  home. 


Original. 
PROTECTION.      L.   M. 


C.   DtlTSLST. 


1 — '-I — I — f — I — "-I— 


1©-- -I 


-^-^:zz 


"I 1 r 

1.     To         thee,    0     God,  my     eve    -    ning      song      With 


:§t=i- 


a 


W=9=^ 


2.     My       days     un  -  cloud-ed       as         they         pass,      And 


ip-rizr: 


;^-F 


el — ei-_  _ 


3.   When     eve-  ning  shades  en  -  fold       mine       eyes.      With 


_!__  I. 


— b — I — I — iz—i 


i^ggggg^ 


grate-ful  heart  and  voice      I  '11     raise  ;       O       let    thy  mer  -  cy 


«— «— 1— 1- 


-o- 


m 


eve  -  ry  gent-ly     roll   -    ing      hour       Are     men  -  u-ments  of 


IT 


IgHEtg 


w^Bismm 


thy  pro  -  tec-tion    I  am      blest ;       On     thee,  0  Lord,  my 


won  -  drous  grace.   And    wit-ness    to    thy  love     and     power. 


hope       re  -  lies ;    In      thee    I   move,  in    thee      I        rest. 


LHicks .  5el  . 


C.iST2Xl..SCuif>. 


FASSIII?r(&  MI©MIEMTS 


Eagraved  expressly  foT  th.e  Yaimly  Circle . 


Original. 

THE    LOST    SON. 

THE   DESCENDING    SCALE. 

"a    pin A   PENNY A    POUND^ — A    PENALTY PEKDITIOn!" 

EDITORIAL. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mansel  had  two  children,  a  son  and  daugh- 
ter. Mr.  Mansel  was  a  man  of  sterling  principle,  and  mild 
amiable  disposition.  His  mind  had  been  disciplined  and  im- 
proved by  study  and  general  reading,  and  he  had  enjoyed 
the  advantages  of  a  religious  education.  Happily  he  be- 
came pious  in  youth.  He  possessed  those  qualities  which 
fitted  him  as  well  for  the  duties  and  pleasures  of  the  domes- 
tic circle,  as  for  the  difficulties  and  responsibilities  of  public 
life.  Mrs.  Mansel  was  the  child  of  affluent  parents,  and 
had  been  spoiled  by  indulgence,  and  ruined  by  neglect. 
Bred  in  the  school  of  fashion  and  vanity,  with  a  volatile,  un- 
governable temper,  she  was  allowed  to  be  her  own  mistress, 
and  even  to  domineer  over  her  parent.  She  would  not  sub- 
mit to  the  toil  and  drudgery  of  study ;  hence  she  made  no 
solid  attainments,  but  her  education  was  limited  to  a  superfi- 
cial acquaintance  with  the  ornamental  branches,  such  as 
music,  painting  and  dancing. 

Mr.  Mansel  fancied  Miss  Crawford,  was  smitten  with  her 
beauty,  and  ensnared  with  the  witchery  of  her  charms,  ere 
he  had  ''nne  to  ascertain  whether  she  possessed  more  solid 
and  substantia^  qualifications.  Miss  Crawford,  in  her  turn, 
admired  Mr.  Ma.isel's  fine  form,  and  noble,  dignified  de- 
meanor, and  those  hig':er  qualifications  which  are  the  pas- 

VOL.    VI.    NO.    2. 


46  THE    LOST    SON. 

port  to  honor,  and  she  felt  that  a  union  with  such  an  one 
would  be  a  triumph  worthy  of  being  achieved.  And  so,  they 
were  married.  Too  late  he  discovered  his  error,  and  hke  all 
those  who  marry  for  love  or  money  purely,  he  was  left  to 
experience  the  bitter  fruits  of  his  choice. 

The  birth  of  their  children  seemed  to  supply  new  links  to 
bind  them  together  after  the  bonds  of  love  were  dissolved. 
Yet  one  of  these,  through  the  indiscretion  and  folly  of  the 
mother,  proved  a  bone  of  contention,  and  the  source  of  great 
and  lasting  unhappiness.  Walter  resembled  his  father  in 
looks,  and  his  mother  in  disposition ;  and  though  Mr.  Han- 
sel's heart  was  full  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  and,  from 
the  beginning,  he  labored  assiduously  to  win  the  love  and 
respect  of  his  son,  his  heart  inclined  only  to  his  mother  and 
he  was  wholly  ruled  by  her.  Mrs.  Mansel  had  no  reUsh  for 
serious  converse  or  serious  things,  but  had  a  passionate  fond- 
ness for  the  society  of  the  gay,  and  found  pleasure  only  in  a 
fashionable  round  of  amusements.  When,  therefore,  Mr. 
Mansel  determined  to  establish  religious  worship  in  his  fam- 
ily and  entered  upon  the  work  of  religious  instruction,  he 
met  with  no  small  opposition.  At  first  when  he  engaged  in 
worship,  she  would  retire  from  the  room,  and  on  one  occa- 
sion when  he  rose  from  his  knees,  he  found  the  children  also 
had  left  the  room.  It  was  a  sore  trial,  but  he  bore  it  patiently. 
For  a  long  time  he  was  silent,  and  when  he  spoke  to  Mrs.  M. 
it  was  with  tears  and  in  the  language  of  tender  expostulation. 
At  last  she  yielded  so  far,  as  to  remain  during  prayer  time 
with  the  children.  But  neither  his  entreaties  nor  his  tears 
could  conquer  her  aversion  to  these  holy  duties.  She  was 
sullen  and  morose,  and  the  children  caught  the  infection  and 
were  restless  and  sour  in  his  presence.  He  persevered  until 
Mrs.  M.  had  learned  to  subdue  these  outward  synT^loms  of 
dislike  and  opposition,  and  the  little  circle  pre"  uted  an  as- 
pect of  order  and  decency  during  the  sea'  ^n  of  family  wor- 
ship. Still  the  feeling  of  dissatisfacti^  u  rankled  in  her  breast, 
and  the  Word  of  God  and  pio'i^  exhortation  was  submitted 
to,  as  a  mere  dead  form  in  wiiich  she  took  no  pleasure. 


THE    LOST    SON.  47 

Under  the  tuition  of  his  mother,  Walter's  feelings  of  oppo- 
sition to  his  father's  rule,  became  more  and  more  settled  and 
confirmed,  and  he  generally  slept  or  played  in  time  of  prayer, 
or  wriggled  about  in  his  chair.  Walter  was  Mrs.  M's.  darl- 
ing child,  who  reflected  her  image  and  faithfully  imitated  all 
her  actions.  In  her  eyes  he  was  perfect.  The  more  per- 
verse and  disobedient  he  was,  the  more  she  flattered  and 
caressed  him ;  and  when,  at  any  time,  his  father  reproved 
or  counseled  him,  she  gave  no  dubious  signs  of  dissatisfaction. 
She  could  not  accuse  him  of  severity  in  his  government,  for 
he  was  always  mild  and  patient,  and  ever  ready  to  forgive 
and  encourage  his  children  to  do  right.  He  ruled  them  not 
with  a  rod  of  iron,  but  with  the  sceptre  of  love.  He  would 
not  indeed  permit  his  authority  to  be  trampled  on,  nor  yet 
would  he  break  the  bruised  reed.  He  gave  Mrs.  M.  no  just 
reason  at  any  time  to  complain,  yet  it  seems  to  have  been 
a  fixed  principle  with  her  never  to  coincide  with  him  in  his 
requisitions  and  effbrts  to  lead  his  son  in  the  way  he  should 
go.  Even  his  effbrts  to  teach  him  good  manners  were  uni- 
formly counteracted  by  unseasonable  apologies  or  ill  judged 
compliments. 

But  her  opposition  did  not  stop  here ;  it  was  displayed 
also  when  Mr.  M.  sought  to  teach  his  son  good  morals. 
Often  he  inculcated  the  importance  of  truth  and  honesty. 
On  one  occasion,  he  said  to  Walter,  *'  He  who  steals  will 
LIE  to  conceal  it.  You  should  be  honest  then  in  the  smallest 
matter.  He  that  will  steal  a  pin  will  soon  steal  a  penny, 
and  then  something  more  valuable.  This  is  the  process  or 
descending  scale ;  first  a  fin,  then  a  penny,  a  pound,  a  pen- 
alty, perdition."  "Walter,  my  son,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  M. 
much  excited,  "  you  may  take  as  many  of  my  pins  as  you 
please  !  I'm  not  afraid  you'll  become  a  thief"  Then  turn- 
ing to  Mr.  Mansel  she  said,  "  what  if  my  child  should  take 
a  penny  that's  no  killing  matter  ? "  Shocked  at  this  speech, 
Mr.  M.  in  a  tone  of  deep  seriousness,  remarked,  "  My  dear, 
it  was  my  object  to  inculcate  a  fundamental  principle  and 
to  show  Walter  what  the  commission  of,  what  some  errone- 


48  THE    LOST    SON. 

ously  call  a  small  sin,  will  lead  to.  A  pin  is  a  trifle,  and  a 
penny  is  a  trifle ;  the  stealing  of  a  penny  would  not  impov- 
erish me,  but  it  might  lead  to  the  ruin  of  my  son."  Mrs. 
M.  caring  more  for  victory  than  truth,  and  the  more  des- 
perate for  being  hard  pressed,  raised  her  alto  voice  to  a  still 
higher  pitch  and  thus  delivered  herself,  "  I  can  tell  you  Mr. 
M.  my  son  is  too  good  ever  to  do  or  be  what  I  plainly  see, 
you  suspect  him  of.  Poor,  dear  boy !  you  are  putting 
thoughts  into  his  head  which  he  had  never  once  imagined. 
Just  think  what  senseless  jargon,  what  foolish  rhapsody  ! — 
a  PIN,  a  PENNY,  a  pound,  a  penalty,  perdition  !  mind 
what  I  say,  if  Walter  becomes  wicked,  it  will  be  because 
you  have  taught  him  the  way."  This  speech  failed  of  its 
object  upon  the  father,  but  the  poison  entered  the  son's  mind. 
Mr.  Mansel  calmly  replied,  "It  was  my  aim,  to  show  my 
son  how  insensibly  persons  may  turn  aside  from  the  path  of 
duty,  and  how  deplorable  may  be  the  consequences  of  the 
FIRST  mistep,  to  put  him  on  his  guard.  If  the  best  way  to 
avoid  danger  is  to  be  insensible  and  blind  to  it,  then  it  would 
be  safe  to  put  a  bandage  on  the  eyes  of  my  son."  Then 
turning  to  Walter,  he  said,  "  my  son,  out  of  my  great  solici- 
tude for  your  happiness,  I  have  taught  you  what  evils  will 
flow  from  the  smallest  departure  from  the  strait  line  of 
rectitude  and  truth ;  I  have  described  the  ladder  which  leads 
down  by  successive  steps  to  ruin.  This  it  is — a  pin,  a 
PENNY,  a  POUND,  a  PENALTY,  PERDITION  !  Avoid  taking  the 
first  step  in  this  downward  path  and  you  are  safe.  Beware 
of  the  FIRST  sin ;  like  a  pin,  it  may  seem  but  a  trifle,  but  it 
may  lead  to  greater  sins  and  end  in  your  ruin."  The  solemn 
lesson  made  no  good  impression  on  the  mind  of  Walter ;  he 
rose  up  sulky  and  left  the  room  muttering,  a  pin  !  a  pin  !  a 
PENNY  ! — what  nonsense  !  Mrs.  M.  soon  followed,  but  not 
without  casting  a  look  of  scorn  behind  her,  and  spitefully 
remarking,  "  forever  goading  my  poor  son !  if  any  thing 
will  ruin  him,  it  will  be  such  treatment ! " 

Under    such   trials    Mr.    Mansel's   only  support   was    in 
prayer.     He  dreaded  an  open  rupture  and  separation  from 


THE    LOST    SON.  49 

his  wife.  Yet,  such  an  event  did  not  strike  him  with  so 
much  horror,  as  the  prospect  of  the  certain  ruin  of  his  child 
under  the  tuition  of  such  a  mother.  In  vain  did  he  reason 
with  her  in  private.  He  implored  her  to  have  compassion 
on  her  son ;  he  begged  that  if  she  would  not  help  him  in  his 
efforts  to  save  the  child,  she  would  not  hinder  him.  But 
all  his  appeals  were  wasted  on  her  ;  there  were  no  principles 
to  respond  to  them  from  within,  and  it  only  made  the  matter 
worse. 

A  day  or  two  after  this  conversation,  the  conduct  of  Wal- 
ter furnished  an  illustration  of  the  principle  of  the  descending 
scale.  Mrs.  Mansel  missed  her  elegant  gold  pin  which  she 
prized  above  all  her  trinkets.  She  immediately  charged  the 
servant  maid  with  the  theft.  In  her  rage,  she  hastily  sum- 
moned the  poor  girl  into  the  parlor,  and  before  Mr.  Mansel 
and  the  children,  pronounced  her  the  guilty  one,  and  threat- 
ened to  send  her  to  jail  if  she  did  not  immediately  restore 
the  pin.  She  had  not  given  the  girl  a  moments  time  for 
explanation,  when  she  found  herself  arraigned  as  the  guilty 
criminal.  She  knew  what  had  become  of  the  pin  and  her 
only  refuge  from  the  disgrace  now  put  upon  her,  was  to 
disclose  the  fact.  Turning  then  to  Walter  and  fixing  her 
swimming  eyes  upon  him,  she  asked  him  where  his  mother's 
pin  was  ?  Without  a  blush,  the  brazen  boy  replied,  "  I  know 
NOTHING  ABOUT  IT."  The  girl  then  turned  to  Mr.  Mansel 
and  observed ;  she  had  seen  him  with  the  pin  that  morning, 
and  no  doubt  it  would  be  found  in  his  pocket.  Mrs.  Mansel's 
eyes  flashed  like  lightning  at  the  girl  and  in  a  shrill  voice, 
she  said,  "  How  dare  you  accuse  my  son,  you  impudent 
thing!"  "Madam,"  the  poor  thing  tremblingly  said,  "I 
assure  you  I  meant  no  disrespect  to  you  ;  but  what  I  say  is 
true,  and  if  you  examine  you  will  find  it  so."  "  Hold  your 
tongue  you  lying  wi-etch,"  said  Mrs.  Mansel,  still  more  irri- 
tated, "  No  one  shall  search  my  noble  son's  pocket ! " — Here 
a  pause  ensued,  while  Mr.  Mansel  silently  pondered  on  the 
step  next  to  be  taken,  to  elicit  the  truth.  The  only  expedi- 
ent immediate! v  occm-red  to  him.     '-Mrs.  Mansel,"  said  he 


[ 


60  THE    LOST    SON. 

in  a  mild  voice,  "  No  one  shall  search  your  son  but  yourself; 
and  doubtless  he  will  be  willing  to  have  you  examine  his 
pockets."  To  so  conciliating  a  proposition,  she  could  not 
well  object ;  she  therefore  bid  Walter  come  to  her.  She 
hastily  thrust  her  hand  into  one  of  his  pockets,  when  sud- 
denly she  screamed,  as  though  in  great  pain,  and  turned 
pale  as  death.  Mr.  Mansel  prevented  her  from  falling,  and 
as  her  hand  was  drawn  out  of  the  pocket,  the  pin  which 
had  entered  deep  under  one  of  her  nails,  hung  dangling 
FROM  HER  FINGER  ;  he  quicklv,  yet  with  much  exertion,  drew 
it  forth,  which  caused  her  still  more  pain,  she  shrieked  aloud 
again  and  fainted.  On  recovering,  she  cast  a  look  of  anger 
upon  her  husband,  who  was  supporting  her  in  his  arms  and 
said  in  a  tone  scarcely  audible.  "  Why,  what  a  shame ! 
what  is  all  this  fuss  !  It  is  only  a  pin  ;  it  is  no  killing  thing. 
I  would  rather  lose  ten  such  pins,  than  have  my  son  mortified 
thus."  Filled  with  astonishment,  Mr.  Mansel  handed  her 
the  fatal  pin,  and  returned  to  his  seat.  Walter  still  main- 
tained his  brazen  front,  and  boldly  said,  "  Ma  told  me  I 
might  take  her  pins  when  I  pleased — It  is  nothing  after 
ALL  BUT  A  PIN."  Mr.  Manscl  could  no  longer  suppress  his 
emotions,  but  casting  a  searching  glance  at  his  wife,  he  said, 
**  you  see  my  dear,  by  your  advice,  your  son  has  descended 
the  FIRST  step  of  the  ladder.  First  a  pin  !  mark  my  word. 
it  will  not  be  long  ere  he  takes  the  second  step."  At  this 
the  circle  broke  up ;  Walter  flung  himself  out  of  the  door ; 
muttering,  "  a  pin,  a  pin  !  what  is  a  pin  ?  " 

Not  long  after  this,  Walter  took  the  second  step.  The 
first  opportunity  which  presented,  he  slipped  a  penny  slily 
into  his  pocket,  on  discovering  which,  his  mother  laughingly 
said,  "you  little  rogue,  you  have  taken  my  penny;"  to 
which  he  gaily  replied,  "  Why  ma,  you  know  it  is  only  a 
penny — first  a  pin,  then  a  penny,  you  know."  Yes  my 
son,  I  know  it,  it  is  only  a  penny,  a  mere  trifle  ;  if  you  never 
do  any  thing  worse  than  this,  you  shall  not  be  scolded  by 
me."  Walter  was  now  ten  years  of  age,  stout  and  hand- 
some.    At  this  early  age,  he  had  taken  the  two  first  steps 


THE    LOST    SON.  51 

down  the  ladder  of  crime,  and  he  found  that  descent  easy 
and  pleasant — made  so  by  the  hand  of  his  own  mother. 
He  saw  no  evil  in  his  course.  It  was  not  long  ere  he  took 
the  THIRD  STEP.  One  day  Mr.  Mansel  was  suddenly  called 
down  stairs  from  his  study,  and  left  the  money  drawer  of 
his  secretary  open.  On  his  return,  he  met  Walter  hurrying 
from  the  room,  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  The  moment 
he  cast  his  eye  upon  the  drawer,  he  missed  the  silver  it  con- 
tained. On  inquiring  of  the  servant,  he  learned  that  Mrs, 
Mansel  and  Walter  had  gone  out.  He  put  on  his  hat  and 
went  immediately  to  the  nearest  business  street,  and  soon 
seeing  Mrs.  Mansel  and  her  son  entering  a  dry  good  store, 
he  paused  a  few  moments  to  take  breath  and  compose  him- 
self, and  then  followed  them  into  the  shop.  He  entered 
just  as  Walter  was  emptying  his  pocket  of  the  silver  to  pay 
for  the  articles  his  mother  had  hastily  purchased.  There 
was  every  shilling  he  had  missed ;  Mr.  Mansel  said  nothing, 
but  walked  back  in  silence  with  them,  not  daring  to  open 
his  lips  till  he  had  somewhat  recovered  from  the  shock  he 
had  received.  The  next  morning  he  called  his  family  to- 
gether for  worship,  as  usual,  and  after  reading  that  portion 
of  the  apostles  writings  which  contain  the  words,  "  let  him 
that  stole,  steal  no  more,"  he  knelt  and  fervently  prayed  for 
his  family  and  for  his  son,  in  particular ;  and  fast  as  his  pe- 
petitions  arose,  his  tears  fell.  The  grief  of  her  father 
touched  the  heart  of  Lucy  and  she  sobbed  aloud.  When  he 
arose  and  the  servant  had  left  the  room,  he  paused  a  mo- 
ment and  then  said  to  Mrs.  Mansel  "  the  all-seeing  eye  of 
God  has  witnessed  the  sad  event  which  has  transpired  in 
this  house  within  a  few  hours.  Yes,  true  it  is,  my  son,  has 
TAKEN  THE  THIRD  STEP — a  POUND !  this  is  at  least  the  sum 
taken  from  my  drawer."  Conscience  smitten,  Mrs.  Mansel 
made  no  reply  this  time,  but  left  the  room  in  silence. 

To  be   concluded. 


52  LOOK    ALOFT. 


LOOK    ALOFT. 

In  the  tempest  of  life,  when  the  wave  and  the  gale 
Are  around  and  above ;  if  thy  footing  should  fail — 
If  thine  eyes  should  grow  dim  and  thy  caution  depart, 
"  Look  aloft"  and  be  firm  and  be  fearless  of  heart. 

If  the  friends  who  embraced  in  prosperit)r'3  glow — 
With  a  smile  for  each  joy  and  a  tear  for  each  woe. 
Should  betray  thee  when  sorrow  like  clouds  are  arrayed, 
«'  Look  aloft,"  to  the  friendship  that  never  sAali  fade ! 

Should  the  visions  which  hope  spreads  in  light  to  thine  eye 
Like  the  tints  of  the  rainbow  brighten  to  fly. 
Then  turn  and  through  tears  of  repentant  regret, 
"  Look  aloft,"  to  the  Sun  that  is  never  to  set 

Should  they  who  are  dearest ;  the  son  of  thy  heart, 
The  wHe  of  thy  bosom  in  sorrow  depart, 
"  Look  aloft,"  from  the  darkness  and  dust  of  the  tomb. 
To  that  land  where  "  affection  is  ever  in  bloom." 

And  oh !  when  death  comes,  in  terrors  to  cast 
His  fears  on  the  future,  his  pall  on  the  past. 
In  that  moment  of  darkness,  with  hope  in  thy  heart 
And  a  anile  in  thine  eye,  "  Look  £doft"  and  depart  1 

These  lines  were  suggested  by  a  striking  fact,  related  by  Dr.  Godman,  of  9 
boy  who  was  about  to  fall  from  the  rigging,  and  was  saved  only  by  the  mate'» 
impressive  exclamation,  "  Look  aloft  !" 


CHRISTIANITY. 

Christianity  did  not  come  from  heaven  to  be  the  amuse 
ment  of  an  idle  hour,  to  be  the  food  of  mere  imagination  ;  to 
be  "  as  a  very  lovely  song  of  one  that  hath  a  pleasant  voice, 
and  playeth  well  upon  an  instrument.  No  ;  it  is  intended  to 
be  the  guide,  the  companion  of  all  our  hours :  it  is  intended 
to  be  the  serious  occupation  of  our  whole  existence. 


THE    NATURAL    BRIDGE.  53 

THE    NATURAL    BRIDGE. 
OR,   ONE   NICHE  THE  HIGHEST. 

BY      E.      BURITT. 

The  scene  opens  with  a  view  of  the  great  Natural  Bridge 
in  Virginia.  There  are  three  or  four  lads  standing  in  the 
channel  below,  looking  up  with  awe  to  that  vast  arch  of 
unhewn  rocks,  which  the  Almighty  bridged  over  those 
everlasting  hutments  "  when  the  morning  stars  sang  to- 
gether."  The  little  piece  of  sky  spanning  those  measureless 
piers,  is  full  of  stars,  although  it  is  mid  day.  It  is  almost 
five  hundred  feet  from  where  they  stand,  up  those  perpen- 
dicular bulwarks  of  limestone,  to  the  key  rock  of  that  vast 
grand  arch,  which  appears  to  them  only  of  the  size  of  a 
man's  hand.  The  silence  of  death  is  rendered  more  im- 
pressive by  the  little  stream  that  falls  from  rock  to  rock 
down  the  channel.  The  sun  is  darkened  and  the  boys  have 
unconsciously  uncovered  their  heads,  as  if  standing  in  the 
presence  chamber  of  the  Majesty  of  the  whole  earth.  At 
last  this  feeling  begins  to  wear  away ;  they  begin  to  look 
around  them  ;  they  find  that  others  have  been  there  before 
them.  They  see  the  names  of  hundreds  cut  in  the  limestone 
hutments.  A  new  feeling  comes  over  their  young  hearts,  and 
their  knives  were  in  their  hands  in  an  instant.  "  What  man 
has  done,  man  can  do,"  is  their  watchword,  while  they  draw 
themselves  up  and  carve  their  names  a  foot  above  those  of 
a  hundred  full  grown  men  who  have  been  there  before  them. 

*  The  description  of  this  thrilling  scene,  we  heard  from  the  lips  of  the  learned 
Blacksmith,  in  Broadway  Tabernacle,  before  the  New  York  Lyceum.  But 
written  language,  expressed  even  in  the  graphic  style  of  the  writer  himself, 
must  ever  fail  to  give  an  adequate  idea  of  the  kffkct  produced  on  the  great 
assembly  by  the  impressive  manner  in  which  it  was  delivered. — Ed. 


54  THE    NATURAL    BRIDGE. 

They  are  all  satisfied  with  this  feat  of  physical  exertion, 
except  one,  whose  example  illustrates  perfectly  the  forgot- 
ten truth,  that  there  is  no  royal  road  to  intellectual  emi- 
nence. This  ambitious  youth  sees  a  name  just  above  his 
reach,  a  name  that  will  be  green  in  the  memory  of  the  world 
when  those  of  Alexander,  Caesar,  and  Bonaparte  shall  rot 
in  oblivion.  It  was  the  name  of  Washington.  Before  he 
marched  with  Braddock  to  that  fatal  field,  he  had  been  there, 
and  left  his  name  a  foot  above  all  his  predecessors.  It  was 
a  glorious  thought  of  the  boy,  to  write  his  name  side  by 
side  with  that  of  the  great  father  of  his  country.  He  grasps 
his  knife  with  a  firmer  hand,  and  clinging  to  a  little  jutting 
crjig,  he  cuts  again  into  the  limestone,  about  a  foot  above 
where  he  stands,  he  then  reaches  up  and  cuts  another  for 
his  hands.  'Tis  a  dangerous  adventure ;  but  as  he  puts  his 
feet  and  hands  into  those  gains,  and  draws  himself  up  care- 
fully to  his  full  length,  he  finds  himself  a  foot  above  every 
name  chronicled  in  that  mighty  wall.  While  his  compan- 
ions are  regarding  him  with  much  concern  and  admiration, 
he  cuts  his  name  in  rude  capitals,  large  and  deep,  into  that 
flinty  album.  His  knife  is  still  in  his  hand,  and  strength  in 
his  sinews,  and  a  new  created  aspiration  in  his  heart.  Again 
he  cuts  another  niche,  and  again  he  carves  his  name  in  large 
capitals.  This  is  not  enough.  Heedless  of  the  entreaties 
of  his  companions,  he  cuts  and  climbs  again.  The  gradua- 
tion of  his  ascending  scale  grows  wider  apart.  He  mea- 
sures his  length  at  every  gain  he  cuts.  The  voices  of  his 
friends  wax  weaker  and  weaker,  till  their  words  are  finally 
lost  on  his  ear.  He  now  for  the  first  time  cast  a  look  be- 
neath him.  Had  that  glance  lasted  a  moment,  that  moment 
would  have  been  his  last.  He  clings  with  a  convulsive 
shudder  to  his  little  niche  in  the  rock.  An  awful  abyss 
awaits  his  almost  certain  fall.  He  is  faint  with  severe  ex- 
ertion, and  trembling  from  the  sudden  view  of  the  dreadful 
destruction  to  which  he  is  exposed.  His  knife  is  worn  half 
way  to  the  haft.  He  can  hear  the  voices,  but  not  the  words 
of  his  terror  stricken  companions  below.     What  a  moment ! 


THE    NATURAL    BRIDGE".  55 

What  a  meagre  chance  to  escape  destruction !  There  is  no 
retracing  his  steps.  It  is  impossible  to  put  his  hands  into 
the  same  niche  with  his  feet  and  retain  hi&  slender  hold  a 
moment.  His  companions  instantly  perceive  this  new  and 
fearful  dilemma,  and  await  his  fall  with  emotions  that  "  freeze 
their  young  blood."  He  is  too  high,  too  faint,  to  ask  for  his 
father  and  mother,  his  brothers  and  sisters,  to  come  and' 
witness  or  avert  his  destruction.  But  one  of  his  compan- 
ions anticipates  his  desire.  Swift  as  the  wind,  he  bounds 
down  the  channel,  and  the  situation  of  the  fated  boy  is  told 
on  his  father's  hearth  stone. 

Minutes  of  almost  eternal  length  rolled  on,  and  there  are 
hundreds  standing  in  that  rocky  channel,  and  hundreds  stand- 
ing on  the  bridge  above,  all  holding  their  breath,  and  await- 
ing the  fearful  catastrophe.  The  poor  boy  hears  the  hum 
of  new  and  numerous  voices  both  above  and  below.  He 
can  distinguish  the  tones  of  his  father,  who  is  shouting  with 
all  the  energy  of  despair,  "  William !  William !  don't  look 
down  !  Your  mother,  and  Henry,  and  Harriet,  are  all  here, 
praying  for  you !  Don't  look  down  !  Keep  your  eye  to- 
wards the  top  !"  His  eye  is  fixed  like  a  flint  towards  Hea- 
ven, and  his  young  heart  on  Him  who  reigns  there.  He 
grasps  again  his  knife.  He  cuts  another  niche,  and  another 
foot  is  added  to  the  hundreds  that  remove  him  from  the 
reach  of  human  help  below.  How  carefully  he  uses  his 
wasting  blade  !  How  anxiously  he  selects  the  softest  places 
in  that  vast  pier  !  How  he  avoids  every  flinty  grain  !  How 
he  economizes  his  physical  powers  ! — resting  a  moment  each 
gain  he  cuts.  How  every  motion  is  watched  from  below ! 
There  stands  his  father,  mother,  brother  and  sister,  on  the 
very  spot  where,  if  he  falls,  he  will  not  fall  alone. 

The  sun  is  now  half  way  down  the  west.  The  lad  has 
made  fifty  additional  niches  in  that  mighty  wall,  and  now 
finds  himself  directly  under  the  middle  of  that  vast  arch  of 
rocks,  earth,  and  trees.  He  must  cut  his  way  in  a  new 
direction,  to  get  from  under  this  over-hanging  mountain. 
The  inspiration  of  hope  is  dying  in  his  bosom ;  its  vital  heat 


56  THE    NATURAL    BRIDGE. 

is  fed  by  the  increasing  shouts  of  hundreds  perched  upon 
cliffs  and  trees,  and  others  who  stand  with  ropes  in  their 
hands  on  the  bridge  above,  or  with  ladders  below.  Fifty 
gains  more  must  be  cut  before  the  longest  rope  can  reach 
him.  His  wasting  blade  strikes  again  into  the  limestone. 
The  boy  is  emerging  painfully,  foot  by  foot,  from  under  that 
lofty  arch.  Spliced  ropes  are  ready  in  the  hands  of  those 
who  are  leaning  over  the  outer  edge  of  the  bridge.  Two 
minutes  more  and  all  will  be  over.  That  blade  is  worn  to 
the  last  half  inch.  The  boy's  head  reels,  his  eyes  are  start- 
ing from  their  sockets.  His  last  hope  is  dying  in  his  heart, 
his  life  must  hang  upon  the  gain  he  cuts.  That  niche  is  the 
last.  At  the  last  faint  gash  he  breaks  his  knife,  his  faithful 
knife  falls  from  his  little  nerveless  hand,  and  falls  at  his 
mothers  feet.  An  involuntary  groan  of  despair  runs  like  a 
death  knell  through  the  channel  below,  and  all  is  still  as  the 
grave.  At  the  height  of  nearly  three  hundred  feet,  the  de- 
voted boy  lifts  his  hopeless  heart  and  closing  eyes  to  com- 
mend his  soul  to  God.  'Tis  but  a  moment — there  ! — one 
foot  swings  off! — he  is  reeling — trembling — toppling  over  to 
eternity  !  Hark  !  a  shout  falls  on  his  ear  from  above  !  The 
man  w^ho  is  lying  over  the  bridge  has  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  boy's  head  and  shoulders.  Quick  as  thought  the  noosed 
rope  was  within  reach  of  the  sinking  youth.  No  one 
breathes.  With  a  faint  convulsive  effort,  the  swooning  boy 
drops  his  arms  into  the  noose — darkness  comes  over  him, 
and  with  the  words  God  !  and  Mother  !  whispered  on  his 
lips  just  loud  enough  to  be  heard  in  Heaven — the  tightening 
rope  lifts  him  out  of  his  last  shallow  niche.  Not  a  lip  moves 
while  he  is  dangling  over  that  fearful  abyss ;  but  when  a 
sturdy  Virginian  reaches  down  and  draws  up  the  lad,  and 
holds  him  up  in  his  arms  before  the  tearful,  breathless  mul- 
titude, such  shouting — such  leaping  and  weepmg  for  joy — 
never  greeted  the  ear  of  human  being  so  recovered  from 
the  yawning  gulph  of  eternity. 


^mm  m^Twm.^%  ieie2©©i 


68  THE    MECHANIC    DIVINE. 

THE    MECHANIC    DIVINE, 

OR,      INDUSTRY      REWARDED. 

A  proud  Welch  squire,  took  it  into  his  head  to  be  very 
angry  w^ith  a  poor  Curate,  who  employed  his  leisure  hours 
in  mending  clocks  and  watches,  and  actually  applied  to  Dr. 
Shipley,  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph,  with  a  formal  complaint 
against  him,  for  impiously  carrying  on  a  trade.  His  lord- 
ship having  heard  the  complaint,  told  the  squire  he  might 
depend  upon  it  that  the  strictest  justice  should  be  done  in 
the  case ;  accordingly  the  mechanic  divine  was  sent  for  a 
few  days  after,  when  the  bishop  asked  him — "  How  he 
dared  to  disgrace  his  diocese  by  becoming  a  mender  of 
clocks  and  watches?"  The  man  with  all  humility  answered, 
"  To  satisfy  the  wants  of  a  wife  and  ten  children  !"  "  That 
won't  do  with  me,"  rejoined  the  prelate  ;  "  I'll  inflict  such  a 
punishment  on  you,  as  shall  make  you  leave  off  your  pitiful 
trade,  I  promise  you ;"  and  immediately  calling  his  secre- 
tary, ordered  him  to  make  out  a  presentation  for  the  aston- 
ished Curate,  to  a  living  of  at  least  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  per  annum. 

Reflections. — It  is  not  often  that  we  see  virtue  thus 
rewarded  in  this  cold  and  selfish  world,  and  men  in  power 
stooping  to  confer  honor  on  those  who,  in  the  deepest 
poverty,  submit  to  the  most  self-denying  labors,  to  maintain 
a  conscience  void  of  offence  towards  God  and  man.  Such 
an  instance  of  pure  generosity  and  discriminating  justice 
as  is  here  presented,  reveals  a  redeeming  trait  in  human 
nature,  and  furnishes  a  beautiful  illustration  of  that  noble 
scripture  maxim,  *'  It  is  more  blessed ,  to  give  than  to  re- 
ceive." Where  ministers  receive  an  incompetent  salary, 
how  can  they  be  expected  to  devote  themselves  wholly  to 
the  ministry  ?  They  must  live.  Some  ministers  who  are 
poorly  paid  must  work  or  suffer.  While  some  clergymen 
receive  their  thousands,  others  are  left  deplorably  poor. — Eds. 


SHADOWS    OF    THE   PAST.  59 

Original. 

MISS    TYNDAL. 

SHADOWS   OF    THE    PAST. 

BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF   ROSI.  YN   CASTLE. 

Amid  thickly  clustered  tokens  of  wealth,  uniting  the  skill 
of  genius,  and  the  graceful  superiority  of  nature,  sadly 
mused  Miss  Tyndal,  on  whose  fair  brow  rested  a  shade  of 
discontent  not  in  keeping  with  the  bright  and  joyous  objects 
around  her. 

A  spirit  palled  by  luxury  is  easily  disturbed  by  the  slight- 
est opposition  to  its  cravings,  and  they  who  study  the  human 
heart  most  closely  feel  least  surprise  at  witnessing  the 
clouded  brow  of  opulence. 

There  was,  however,  something  in  the  grief  of  this  young 
being  very  unlike  the  morbid  irritability  of  the  worn  out  Sy- 
barite, or  the  repining  petulence  of  a  spoiled  worldling. 
There  was  a  depth  of  expression,  an  intensity  of  thought  in 
her  pensive  eyes,  bespeaking  a  higher  influence  than  ever 
springs  from  outward  circumstances.  No  peevish  longing 
for  unattainable  worldly  good,  thus  moved  her  young  heart. 
No  thankless  discontent  with  the  heaped  up  luxuries  around 
her.  No  sad  forebodings  for  the  distant  future,  threw  their 
dark  shadows  over  her  sunny  present.  Her's  was  the  high 
discontent  of  an  awakened  spirit  dissatisfied  with  itself 
What  to  her  was  the  pomp  and  magnificence  amid  which 
she  moved,  compared  with  that  unfading  glory,  once  unprized, 
but  now  sought  for  with  unfaltering  faith.  As  yet  on  the 
threshhold  of  life,  with  a  heart  prone  to  gaiety  and  pleasure, 
she  had  joined  the  reckless  followers  of  fashion,  and  was 
soon  one  of  its  most  ardent  votaries.  But  not  for  such  a 
life  as  this,  had  Providence  gifted  her  with  unusual  talent 
and  strength  of  intellect.     Not  for  this,  had  a  good  mother 


60  SHADOWS    OF    THE    PAST. 

prayed,  as  only  prays  a  mother,  for  the  gift  of  a  pure  heart, 
and  religious  life,  for  her  child.  Not  for  this,  had  she  joined 
her  infant  hands  in  prayer  ere  she  sank  to  rest,  lingering  to 
gaze  on  the  young  sleeper,  committing  her  to  His  care  who 
alone  could  keep  her  as  sinless  as  then.  Not  for  this  had 
she  passed  away  in  hope  and  joy  to  her  heritage  on  high, 
with  her  last  fond  gaze  fixed  on  her  blooming  child. 

It  was  not  amid  anguish,  or  chilling  disappointment  that 
her  young  soul  paused  in  its  downward  course,  and  pausing, 
fled.  There  is  no  tarrying  place  in  dissipation,  we  must  go 
with  its  rapid  current,  or  fly  forever  from  it.  She  had  been 
guilty  of  no  flagrant  breach  of  moral  law,  such  as  leaves 
the  soul  in  its  lowest  capability  of  abasement,  or  sinks  it  in 
the  depths  of  despair,  a  prey  to  undying  remorse.  To  the 
world,  she  seemed  a  gay  and  joyous  creature,  long  after 
her  spirit  had  recoiled  from  the  excess  of  that  pleasure  once 
so  eagerly  pursued.  They  who  regarded  her  as  a  light 
passive  character,  easily  moulded  by  circumstances,  and 
incapable  of  judging  for  itself,  little  suspected  the  inner  strife 
that  was  soon  to  break  out  into  open  rebellion  against  pur- 
suits that  could  so  poorly  satisfy  a  character,  formed  to 
adorn  the  most  elevated  walks  of  life.  She  felt  in  all 
its  bitterness  the  mortifying  conviction  of  degradation,  and 
perverted  tastes,  the  rash  choice  of  friends,  so  unworthy 
that  honorable  title,  and  evincing  such  a  want  of  refinement, 
and  purity  of  mind.  How  often  in  the  very  height  of  her 
infatuation,  had  she  been  startled  by  their  coarseness,  or 
shocked  by  their  looseness  of  principle  and  vacuity  of  mind. 
In  vain  she  sought  an  excuse  for  her  folly,  to  soften  the 
anguish  of  an  upbraiding  conscience,  and  misused  powers. 
She  knew  they  were  her  own  choice.  No  unfortunate 
train  of  events  had  linked  her  to  abject  associates ;  no 
blinding  of  judgment  by  specious  appearances,  but  a  will- 
ing open  surrender  to  evil  example,  that  now  mantled  her 
cheek  with  shame,  and  filled  her  heart  with  disgust.  The 
reaction  of  highly  strung  feelings,  and  generous,  elevated 
instincts,  is  fearful  to  the  possessor,  but  salutary,  and  gene- 


SHADOWS    OF    THE    PAST.  61 

rally  permanent.  After  the  first  overwhelming  burst  of 
feeling,  by  divine  grace,  with  a  strength  of  purpose  natural 
to  her,  and  augmented  by  sincere  regret  for  former  w^eak- 
ness,  she  threw  off  the  fetters  that  had  so  long  bound  her, 
and  stood  before  the  surprised  w^orld  an  altered  being. 
The  sneers  of  her  rejected  associates  failed  to  move  her, 
she  had  despised  them  when  of  them,  and  pitied,  now  that 
she  knew  them  no  longer.  It  was  long  before  she  could 
overcome  the  inward  effects  of  past  folly.  The  guests  she 
had  taken  as  friends  to  her  bosom  were  not  as  easily  thrown 
aside  as  the  evil  associates  of  earlier  days.  It  was  not  easy 
to  surmount  the  languor  of  mental  disease,  or  to  restore  the 
tone  of  an  abused  intellect.  The  buoyancy,  the  purity,  the 
freshness  of  an  unperverted  heart  was  lost  to  her  forever, 
while  the  dew  of  youth  still  moistened  her  brow.  She  had 
cast  the  gem  of  her  life  into  the  whirlpool  of  frivolity,  and 
looked  in  vain  upon  its  rapid  waters  for  the  return  of  the 
too  tardily  prized  gift.  Her's  was  no  uncommon  loss.  Ask 
of  all  who  have  escaped  from  the  snare  of  sin,  what  has 
been  their  saddest  reflection  on  the  past,  and  they  will  an- 
swer, "  That  they  have  given  the  freshness,  the  first-fruits 
of  their  heart  to  sin,  and  laid  it  jaded,  and  stained,  at  the 
I'eet  of  the  Savior.  It  was  such  knowledge  that  saddened 
the  efforts  of  the  repentant  girl,  to  restore  to  her  spirit  some- 
thing of  its  natural  beauty  and  vigor.  If  she  had  sinned  less 
than  others,  she  was  more  guilty  than  some.  When  she 
compared  her  past  habits  with  those  of  her  associates,  she 
felt  elated  with  her  superior  innocence,  but  when  in  com- 
pany with  her  new  friends,  many  of  whom  had  walked  hum- 
bly and  confidingly  in  the  footsteps  of  good  parents,  from 
youth  to  age,  she  retired  to  her  closet  oppressed  with  the 
consciousness  of  her  inferiority,  heightened  by  the  thought, 
that  she  had  had  equal  advantages,  similar  counsel,  and  pa- 
rents, early  lost,  but  not  until  their  example  had  left  its 
brightness  on  the  path  she  had  so  readily  forsaken.  There 
was  but  one  resting  place  for  her  troubled  spirit,  perfect 
submission  to  the  chastisement  of  broken  laws.    It  was  with 


62  SHADOWS    OF    THE    PAST. 

the  mind,  as  with  her  body,  the  latter  had  been  shattered 
by  an  unnatural  course  of  life,  and  only  through  obedience 
to  its  natural  cravings  could  she  hope  for  its  restoration  to 
health.  Her  mind  had  been  deprived  of  its  proper  aliment, 
and  fed  to  emaciation  on  poisonous  husks,  and  retaliated  its 
injuries  by  a  long  train  of  evils,  only  to  be  subdued  by  pa- 
tience and  a  restitution  of  its  rights.  Thus  has  God  wisely 
ordered  that  the  erring  should  be  punished  with  their  own 
weapons,  and  be  led  to  acknowledge  Him  more  merciful  to 
them,  than  they  had  been  to  themselves.  With  this  belief, 
none  need  despair  of  attaining  rest  from  the  effects  of  past 
follies,  although  their  sting  may  long  endure. 

"  Every  heart  knows  its  own  bitterness."  Often  would 
this  adage  recur  to  her  who  had  tested  it  so  thoroughly. 
Even  in  her  better  life,  she  felt  its  truth.  To  all  around  her, 
she  seemed  so  happy  in  her  well  regulated  home,  and  in  her 
useful,  gentle  duties,  that  few  could  refrain  from  speaking 
of  her  enviable  position.  At  such  seasons  she  most  forcibly 
felt  that  she  alone  knew  of  the  bitterness  of  a  heart  dar- 
kened by  shadows  of  the  past,  and  sustained  only  by  the 
consciousness  of  doing  all  in  her  power  to  counteract  the 
effects  of  her  disobedience.  The  more  thoroughly  redeem- 
ed the  heart,  the  keener  is  its  remembrance  of  its  fallen 
state.  Perhaps  it  was  peculiarly  fortunate  that  she  was 
thus  led  from  all  earthly  supports,  to  lean  humbly  on  the 
only  true  One.  The  heart  is  so  treacherous,  as  to  be  sorely 
tempted  even  in  the  hour  of  repentance.  Although  the 
allurements  of  pleasure  and  fashion  had  lost  their  power 
over  her,  in  a  station  so  elevated  as  hers,  there  are  always 
a  host  of  semi-demons  ready  to  assail  a  yielding  heart.  A 
life  all  sunshine  outwardly  and  inwardly,  is  not  favorable  to 
true  piety,  which  alone  should  give  radiance  and  beauty  to 
existence.  Thus  the  shadows  that  flitted  over  her  spirit 
subdued  all  feelings  of  self-righteousness,  that  most  odious 
of  errors,  by  constantly  reminding  it  of  its  weakness,  and 
liability  to  fall,  and  filled  with  resignation  a  heart  conscious 
of  deserving  reproof  and  chastisement. 


THE    ROSE.  63 

If  at  times  her  brow  was  slightly  shaded,  and  her  eye 
beamed  less  brightly,  it  was  not  that  she  repined  at  her  des- 
tiny, but  it  was  the  thoughtful  pause  of  her  spirit  in  its 
every  day  career,  to  gaze  up  anew  at  the  ray  of  grace, 
streaming  through  the  benign.  Shadows  of  the  Past. 


THE    ROSE. 

See   Colored   Engraving. 

This  beautiful  flower  and  universal  favorite,  although  each 
poet  has  made  it  the  theme  of  his  song,  has  never  yet  been 
described  in  language  adequate  to  convey  a  full  idea  of  its 
charms.  It  has  been  denominated  the  daughter  of  Heaven, 
the  ornament  of  Earth,  and  the  glory  of  the  Spring.  When 
it  opens  its  delicate  buds,  the  eye  surveys  its  harmonious 
outlines  with  delight.  But  who  can  describe  the  delicate 
tints  of  its  enchanting  colors,  or  the  swejet  perfume  which  it 
exhales  ? — Behold  the  queen  of  flowers  in  the  Spring,  raising 
itself  softly  in  the  midst  of  its  elegant  foliage,  surrounded  by 
its  numerous  buds  ;  rfhe  seems  to  sport  with  the  air  that  fans 
her,  to  deck  herseW  with  the  dew  drops  that  impearl  her,  and 
smile  under  the  reflection  of  those  rays  which  cause  the  ex- 
pansion of  her  form. 

In  producing  the  pride  of  Flora,  nature  seems  to  have 
exhausted  all  her  stores  of  sweetness  and  beauty.  The 
Rose  is  found  every  where ;  the  most  beautiful  is  the  most 
common  of  flowers.  It  dies  when  it  attains  to  the  perfection 
of  its  beauty;  but  the  returning  season  restores  it  to  us 
lovely  as  ever.  It  is  the  emblem  of  all  ages — the  orna- 
ment of  .beauty — the  image  of  youth,  innocence  and  pleasure. 

The  Rose  is  the  most  beautiful  piece  of  divine  workman- 
ship which  adorns  our  garden.  Under  the  similitude  of  the 
Rose,  the  surpassing  beauty  and  loveliness  of  the  Saviour  is 
set  forth,     "  I  am  the  Rose  of  Sharon." 


64  THE    LILAC. 

BOTANICAL. 

THE  LILAC. 

See   Colored   Engraring. 

This  is  an  ornamental  deciduous  shrub,  bearing  a  bluish 
flower  in  May.  Leaves  ovate,  cordate ;  branches,  stiff, 
white-colored.  It  belongs  to  the  natural  order  Oleina.  Art. 
class, — Diandria ;  order, — Monogynia. 

Nothing  is  more  delightful,  than  the  sensations  produced 
by  the  first  appearance  of  the  Lilac  on  the  return  of  Spring. 
Who  that  does  not  admire  the  freshness  of  its  verdure,  the 
pliancy  of  its  tender  branches,  the  abundance  of  its  flowers, 
— their  beauty,  though  brief  and  transient, — their  delicate 
and  varied  colors !  Nature  seems  to  have  aimed  to  have 
formed  large  bunches  of  the  Lilac,  every  part  of  which  should 
astonish  by  its  delicacy  and  variety.  Albano  was  unable  to 
blend  upon  his  palette  colors  sufficiently  soft  and  delicate  to 
give  a  true  idea  of  the  Lilac;  and  Van  Spandock  threw 
down  his  pencil  in  despair.  The  gradation  of  color,  from 
the  bud  to  the  almost  colorless  flowers,  is  the  least  charm  of 
these  beautiful  groupes,  around  which  the  light  plays  and 
produces  a  thousand  shades,  which,  all  blending  together  in 
the  same  tint,  forms  that  matchless  harmony  which  the 
painter  despairs  to  imitate.  What  labor  has  the  Creator 
bestowed  to  produce  this  fragile  shrub,  which  seerns  only 
given  for  the  gratification  of  the  senses !  What  a  union  of 
perfume,  of  freshness,  of  grace  and  of  delicacy!  What 
variety  in  detail  !  What  beauty  as  a  whole !  Every  one 
must  see  the  beauty  and  truth  of  Cowper's  description, 

The  Lilac,  various  in  array,  now  white 

Now  sanguine,  and  her  beauteous  head  now  set 

With  purple  spikes  pyramidal,  as  if. 

Studious  of  ornament,  yet  unresolved 

Which  hue  she  most  approved,  she  chose  them  all, 


BUNYAN's    CHRISTIANA.  65 

Original. 

BUNYAN'S    CHRISTIANA. 
A  MODEL   FOR  MOTHERS. 

BY  MRS.  M.  E.  DOUBLEDAY. 

While  every  page  of  the  progress  of  the  immortal  Pilgrim 
pioves  Bunyan's  deep  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  of 
the  operation  of  the  Holy  Spirit  in  renewing  the  soul,  he 
never  displays  greater  discrimination,  than  in  those  slight 
touches  which  mark  the  difference  between  the  characters 
and  the  piety  of  his  Christian  and  his  Christiana — The 
father  and  the  mother — Man  in  his  strength  and  helpless- 
ness— Woman  in  her  weakness  and  her  power. 

There  are  characteristics  common  to  both.  They  both 
felt  their  need  of  deliverance  ;  they  both  exhibit  a  single- 
ness of  purpose,  a  steadfastness  of  resolution,  and  a  willing- 
ness to  forsake  all ;  but  Christian  had  deeper  convictions  of 
sin,  greater  distress  of  mind,  more  powerful  temptations  to 
overcome,  than  were  placed  in  the  way  of  Christiana.  His 
horror  and  agony  were  such  that  he  fled  for  his  life,  and  left 
his  family  to  perish  in  the  city  of  Destruction  ;  the  over- 
powering sentiment  absorbed  him.  He  saw  and  felt  all  his 
guilt  and  all  his  danger,  and  he  fled  as  one  who  felt  that  the 
avenger  of  blood  was  behind  him. 

The  emotions  of  Christiana  were  more  gentle  and  tender, 
and  the  affections  of  the  woman  mingled  more  with  all  the 
experience  of  the  Christian.  The  tenderness  and  the 
devotedness  of  the  mother  were  as  manifest  as  the  steadfast- 
ness and  diligence  of  the  pilgrim.  Christian  was  driven  by 
the  fear  of  coming  wrath,  to  flee  from  his  native  place. 
Love  for  her  husband,  led  Christiana  to  follow  him  ;  grief  for 
his  loss  awakened  remorse  for  her  neglect  of  his  entreaties, 
and  repentance  for  sins  against  the  Holy  One.     The  bur- 


66  BUNTAN*3    CHRISTIANA. 

den  of  actual  transgression  might  with  great  propriety  be 
represented  as  much  heavier  upon  the  man  exposed  to  all  the 
temptations  and  sins  of  the  world,  than  upon  the  woman, 
sheltered  and  guarded  in  the  seclusion  of  domestic  life.  Yet, 
both  needed  to  enter  the  wicket  gate,  and  both  found  com- 
fort at  the  Cross.  Christian  went  out  alone.  Through  all 
the  dreariness  of  early  pilgrimage,  he  was  a  solitary  way- 
farer, holding  only  occasional  converse  with  others  at  the 
different  stations  appointed  to  direct  him.  Is  it  not  often 
thus  ?  Have  not  we  all  seen  the  strong  man  enter  the 
Christian  race,  and  with  a  firm  step,  and  steadfast  heart, 
tread  his  path  alone,  without  either  seeking  or  desiring 
human  aid  or  sympathy.  But  as  the  pilgrim  advances  the 
man  softens,  and  the  Christian  becomes  more  tender,  and 
social,  and  loving,  more  alive  to  human  sympathy,  yet  not 
less  dependent  on  divine  aid,  and  before  the  termination  of 
his  journey  he  gladly  joins  himself  to  some  Hopeful  or  Faith- 
ful, and  by  the  fellowship  of  the  saints  below,  he  learns 
something  of  the  blessedness  of  the  communion  of  the  saints 
above. 

But  the  AFFECTIONS  are  always  strong  in  woman,  and  she 
can  only  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  love  and  sympathy ;  and 
when  Christiana  turns  her  face  to  the  Celestial  City,  Bunyan 
gives  her  a  friend,  kind,  tender  and  sympathising,  to  attend 
her,  and  he  inclines  her  children  to  go  with  her,  so  that  in- 
stead of  going  out  a  solitary  wayfarer,  she  leadeth  forth  her 
children  like  a  flock,  and  they  enter  a  little  band  upon  their 
pilgrimage,  and  together  share  the  joys  and  bear  the  burdens 
of  the  way. 

Bunyan  does  not  represent  the  father  as  forgetting  his 
family.  He  was  influenced  by  a  desire  to  have  them  with 
him  when  he  turned  aside  from  the  way,  to  dwell  in  the 
pretty  little  town  of  Morality — yet  he  left  them  and  not  one 
of  them  followed  him.  Not  one  thought  of  leaving  her 
children,  seems  to  have  entered  the  mind  of  Christiana. 
What  a  mother,  in  earnest  for  the  salvation  of  her  own  soul, 
yet  consent  to  leave  her  children  to  perish  in  the  city  of 


BUNYAN'b    CHRISTIANA.  67 

Destruction  ?  Not  so  does  the  author  of  the  Pilgrim's 
progress  represent  woman.  He  knew  too  well  the  value 
and  the  power  of  woman's  love  and  woman's  faithfulness. 
When  Christiana  resolved  to  flee  from  her  native  city,  she 
prepared  to  take  her  children  with  her.  Her  first  question 
to  the  messenger  was,  "  Sir,  will  you  carry  me  and  my  chil- 
dren with  you — that  we  may  go  and  worship  the  King  ?" 
And  beautifully  and  naturally  is  she  represented  as  drawing 
her  children  around  her,  as  a  penitent  confessing  her  own 
transgressions ;  and  with  a  mother's  love  and  a  mother's 
faithfulness,  warning  them  of  their  danger,  and  entreating 
them  to  join  her  and  follow  their  Father.  And  gladly  did 
they  comply  with  her  entreaties  and  listen  to  the  Heavenly 
visitor.  Happy  for  them  and  for  their  mother  that  Christi- 
ana thus  resolved  before  her  children  had  left  her  side. 
Had  they  established  themselves  in  the  city  of  Destruction, 
and  taken  to  themselves  daughters  of  the  land  for  wives, 
difficult  if  not  impossible,  had  she  found  it  to  induce  them  to 
go  with  her  to  seek  another,  even  a  Heavenly  country. 

Is  not  this  a  beautiful  picture  and  is  it  not  true  to  life  ? 
Has  not  God  for  wise  and  gracious  purposes,  endowed 
woman  with  these  deep  and  strong  affections,  and  ordained 
that  her  influence  shall  arise  from  them.  By  simulating 
vicious  women  often,  bend  the  strong  and  the  mighty,  and 
lead  them  captive  at  their  will,  but  in  a  virtuous  woman 
they  are  ever  in  constant  exercise,  and  they  are  the  source 
and  spring  of  her  influence  on  all  around,  and  many  a  strong 
will  and  proud  heart  which  would  resist  all  other  influence, 
has  yielded  to  the  power  of  maternal  love,  and  listened  to  the 
invitations  of  Heaven  when  they  have  been  repeated  by  a 
mother's  lips. 

In  all  the  ensuing  pilgrimage,  the  characters  of  the  mother 
nnd  the  Christian  are  beautifully  blended.  There  is  a  sweet 
mingling  of  Christian  humility  and  maternal  faithfulness,  of 
maternal  love  and  authority.  Indeed,  we  judge  that  the 
authority  of  the  parent  had  been  well  established  even  before 
the  mother  aiid   her  children  turned  their  faces  towards  the 


68  BUNTAN*S   CHRISTIAWA. 

Celestial  City  ;  yet  Christiana  still  knew  the  need  of  constant 
care,  and  of  a  mother's  oversight ;  and  although  the  whole 
party  were  provided  with  a  guide,  she  never  remitted  her 
vigilance.  She  never  started  on  her  race  and  left  her 
children,  or  sending  them  ahead  slowly  followed. 

Side  by  side  they  still  pursued  their  path,  and  although  the 
children  of  Christiana  were  sons,  they  were  ever  near  and 
with  their  mother,  and  she  was  the  guide  and  companion  of 
their  way.  Is  there  not  encouragement  and  instruction  for 
all  mother's  here  ?  Has  Bunyan  overrated  and  exaggerated 
the  influence  of  a  mother  ?  Has  he  ascribed  more  to  his 
Christiana  than  is  usually  possessed  by  the  devoted  and 
pious  mother  ?     We  will  not  willingly  think  it. 

All  mothers  may  not  exert  the  influence  they  possess. 
Not  all  are  aware  of  the  power  entrusted  to  them.  Had  not 
Christiana  herself,  repeated  and  enforced  by  argument  and 
entreaty  the  message  of  the  celestial  visitant,  she  had  hardly 
seen  her  children  the  companions  of  her  pilgrimage.  And 
the  mother  who  does  not  labor  and  pray  for  the  conversion 
of  her  children,  can  hardly  hope  to  witness  it ;  for  while  it 
is  true  that  God  alone  changes  the  heart,  we  know,  too,  that 
he  employs  human  instrumentality,  and  to  the  mother  is  en- 
trusted an  influence  equal  to  the  responsibility  imposed  upon 
her. 

In  her  daily  converse  with  her  children,  they  imbibe  her 
tastes  and  principles,  and  she  forms  their  habits  and  moulds 
their  characters,  and  stamps  her  own  impress  upon  their 
souls ;  and  it  seems  hardly  possible  that  a  mother  whose 
own  heart  is  full  of  the  peace  and  love  and  holiness  of 
Heaven,  should  train  a  godless  depraved  family,  unless  she 
allows  other  occupations  to  separate  her  from  her  children, 
and  other  influences  to  rest  upon  their  heart. 

There  may  be  mothers,  how  unlike  Christiana,  who  do 
not  attempt  to  induce  their  children  to  join  them  in  their  pil- 
grimage. Perhaps  they  deem  them  too  young.  It  would 
be  so  trying  to  watch  over  them  all  the  way.  Perhaps  the 
family  have  possessions  in  the  city  of  Destruction,  which  the 


THE    INSTRUCTIVE    DREAMER.  69 

parents  wish  the  children  to  enjoy,  though  they  themselvess 
forsake  them.  Many  a  mother  rather  hopes  that  at  some 
indefinite  future  her  children  will  follow  her,  than  desires 
that  they  may  accompany  her.  And  while  the  Christiana 
of  Bunyan  grieved  that  her  children  should  pluck  the  fruit 
of  the  enemy  which  overhung  the  wall,  many  a  modem 
Christiana  seems  to  consider  it  as  a  thing  allowable,  that 
during  the  days  of  youth  her  children  should  recreate  them- 
selves in  the  pleasure  grounds  of  the  great  destroyer. 


THE  INSTRUCTIVE  DREAMER. 

In  connection  with  the  foregoing  article,  designed  to  illus- 
trate some  of  the  beauties  of  Bunyan's  immortal  work,  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  we  cannot  but  express  our  desire  that 
this  Guide  to  the  Christian  Pilgrim,  may  be  more  thoroughly 
studied  and  more  widely  circulated  throughout  our  land. 
It  is  the  most  beautiful  and  instructive  allegory  in  our 
language :  we  are  of  opinion  moreover,  that  it  is  the  best 
uninspired  interpreter  of  the  mind  and  will  of  God  respect- 
ing the  conduct  and  course  of  him  who  has  entered  upon  the 
Christian  life ;  in  this  respect,  it  is  a  most  important  auxi- 
liary to  the  Bible,  and  should  accompany  it  wherever  it 
goes.  Not  that  the  Bible  is  not  a  safe  and  infallible  guide, 
nor  that  it  needs  human  authority  to  give  weight  to  its  doc- 
trines, or  add  force  to  its  decisions  and  sanctions  ;  only  so  far 
as  the  interpretations  of  men  serve  to  illustrate  its  truths  and 
make  them  stand  out,  as  it  were,  with  greater  prominence 
are  they  to  be  viewed  in  the  light  of  humble  auxiliaries.  In 
these  respects,  probably  no  uninspired  man  has  given  greater 
evidence  of  being  taught  immediately  of  God,  than  the  pious 
author  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

It  is  known  to  the  public,  that  we  have  published  the  Pil- 
grim's Progress  in  numbers  in  a  cheap  and  elegant  form, 
embellished  with  thirty  steel  and   colored  engravings,  and 


70  THE    INSTRUCTIVE    DEEAMER. 

illustrated  with  five  hundred  luminous  explanatory  notes, 
mostly  by  Mason,  a  man  well  calculated  by  his  eminent  piety 
and  learning  for  this  delicate  and  difficult  work.  Some 
idea  may  be  formed  of  the  great  demand  for,  and  rapid 
sale  of  this  work,  when  the  reader  is  informed  that,  in  less 
than  two  years  it  has  passed  through  twelve  editions  of 
one  thousand  copies  each.  And  yet  what  has  been  done  to 
supply  the  people  of  this  land,  with  this  invaluable  work,  is 
but  a  drop  in  the  bucket.  Our  object  has  been,  if  possible, 
to  put  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  within  the  reach  of  all  who 
may  desire  it.  Knowing  the  tried  and  sterling  value  of  the 
work,  as  a  guide  both  to  the  Christian  and  the  impenitent 
sinner,  we  have  been  anxious  to  scatter  it  broadcast  over 
the  land,  and  deposit  it  in  every  family  of  our  nation. 

Our  Pilgrim's  Progress  was  designed  as  a  premium  for  the 
subscribers  of  the  Family  Circle.  In  this  way  a  large 
number  of  the  work  have  found  their  way  into  families  which 
might  otherwise  have  remained  destitute  of  it.  Thus  we 
have  accomplished  the  two-fold  object,  of  promoting  the 
circulation  of  our  Family  Circle,  and  also  the  wider  dif- 
fusion of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  The  inducement  pre- 
sented to  the  public,  by  the  offer  of  our  beautiful  premium, 
to  subscribe  for  our  Magazine  or  to  continue  their  subscrip- 
tions, will  have  lost  none  of  its  force  when  they  see  what 
great  improvements  we  are  making  in  the  Magazine.  If  an 
individual  or  family  may  have  a  copy  of  the  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress, free  of  cost,  by  aiding  the  circulation  of  the  Family 
Circle,  we  can  hardly  think  they  will  make  light  of  the  prof- 
fered boon  and  lose  the  benefit  of  both.  We  are  confident 
the  lovers  of  sound  knowledge  and  evangelical  religion,  will 
not  content  themselves  without  the  monthly  visits  of  such  a 
work  as  our  Periodical ;  nor  will  they  be  willing  to  be  with- 
out the  light  which  the  Spirit  of  God  kindled  up  in  Bedford 
Jail  to  illuminate  the  path  of  Christian  from  the  moment 
of  his  leaving  the  city  of  Destruction  to  his  arrival  at  the 
heavenly  Jerusalem.     Eds. 


EPITAPHS.  71 

EPITAPHS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

CHAUCER'S. 
Death  is  the  repose  of  the  weary. 

ON  JOHN  SHEFFIELD,  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM. 

"  1  lived  doubtful,  not  dissolute 
I  die  unresolved,  not  unresigned. 

Ignorance  and  error 
Are  incident  to  human  nature ; 
I  trust  in  Almighty  and  All-Good  God  ; 
0  !  thou      Being  of  beings,  have  compassion  on  me." 

ON  GRACE,  WIFE  OF  COL.  THOMAS  SCOTT. 

'  He  that  will  give  my  Grace  but  what  is  hers,  must  say  that  her 

death  hath  not  only  made  her  dear  Scott,  but  virtue, 

worth  and  sweetness,  Widowers." 

IN    CHISWICK   CHURCHYARD. 
HOGARTH'S. 

Farewell,  great  painter  of  mankind ! 

Who  reach'd  the  noblest  point  of  art 
Whose  pictur'd  morals  charm  the  mind 

And  through  the  eye  correct  the  heart. 

If  genius  fire  thee,  Reader,  stay ; 

If  nature  move  thee,  drop  a  tesir ; 
If  neither  move  thee,  turn  away. 

For  Hogarth's  honor'd  dust  lies  here. 

By Garrick. 

THE  WAGES  OF  SIN. 

The  wages  that  sin  bargains  for  with  the  sinner  are.  hte. 
pleasure,  and  profit ;  but  the  wages  it  pays  him  with  are. 
death,  torment  and  destruction.  He  that  would  understand 
the  falsehood  and  deceit  of  sin,  must  compare  its  promises 
and  its  payments  together. 


72  SENTIMENTS    AND    SIMILIES. 


SENTIMENTS    AND    SIMILIES. 

Virtue  is  the  only  true  support  of  pleasure,  which,  when 
disjoined  from  it,  is  like  a  plant  when  its  fibres  are  cut,  which 
may  still  look  gay  and  lovely  for  awhile,  but  soon  decays 
and  perishes. 

OPPRESSION    AND    GENTLENESS. 
The  human  heart  rises  against  oppression  and  is  soothed 
by  gentleness,  as  the  wave  of  the  ocean  rises  in  proportion 
to  the  violence  of  the  winds  and  sinks  with  the  breeze  into 
mildness  and  serenity. 

PASSION  AT  WAR  WITH  REASON. 
The  region  of  passion  is  a  land  of  despotism,  where  rea- 
son exercises  but  a  mock  jurisdiction ;  and  is  continually 
forced  to  submit  to  an  arbitrary  tyrant,  who  rejecting  her 
fixed  and  temperate  laws,  is  guided  only  by  the  dangerous 
impulse  of  his  own  violent  and  uncontrolable  wishes. 

AVARICE. 
Avarice  is  a  passion  as  despicable  as  it  is  hateful.  It 
chooses  the  most  insiduous  means  for  the  attainment  of  its 
ends  ;  it  dares  not  pursue  its  means  with  the  bold  impetuosity 
of  the  soaring  eagle,  but  skims  the  ground  in  narrow  circles, 
like  a  swallow. 

AN  OLD  MAN. 
The  contemplation  of  a  venerable  old  man  sinking  gently 
into  the  arms  of  death,  supported  by  filial  aflfection  and  ani- 
mated by  religious  hope,  excites  a  serious  yet  not  unpleasing 
sensation.  When  the  gay  and  busy  scenes  of  life  are  past, 
and  the  years  advance  which  have  no  pleasure  in  them, 
what  is  left  for  age  to  wish,  but  that  its  infirmities  may  be 
soothed  by  watchful  solicitude  of  tenderness,  and  its  dark- 
ness cheered  by  a  ray  of  that  love  "  which  cometh  from 
above!"  To  such  persons,  life  even  in  its  last  stage,  is 
still  agreeable. 


SIN    AND    FOLLY    OF    FRETTING.  Tg 


SIN  AND  FOLLY  OF  FRETTING. 

The  religion  of  Jesus  Christ  has  for  its  great  object  the 
eternal  happiness  of  man.  It  is,  however,  practically  in- 
fluential in  the  production  of  true,  although  imperfect, 
happiness  even  in  the  present  world.  In  too  many  cases,  we 
confess,  the  religious  spirit  is  tempered  with  much  of  the  in- 
firmity and  sinfulness  of  our  fallen  humanity.  It  can  seldom 
be  affirmed  of  our  charity  that  it  "  is  not  easily  provoked." 
The  mind  even  of  the  Christian  is  frequently  fretted  by  the 
repetition  of  small  troubles  and  vexations.  Such  being  the 
case,  it  is  important  to  consider  the  character  and  effects  of 
fretfulness : — 

It  is  a  sin  AGAINST  GoD. — It  is  evil  and  only  evil,  and 
that  continually.  David  understood  both  human  nature  and 
the  law  of  God.  He  says,  "  Fret  not  thyself  in  anywise  to  do 
evil."  That  is,  never  fret  or  scold,  for  it  is  always  a  sin.  If 
you  cannot  speak  without  fretting  and  scolding,  keep  silence. 

It  DESTROYS  AFFECTION. — No  ouc  cvcr  did,  ever  can,  or 
ever  will  love  an  habitual  fretter,  fault-finder,  or  scolder. 
Husbands,  wives,  children,  relatives  and  domestics,  have  no 
affection  for  your  peevish,  fretful  fault-finder.  Few  tears  are 
shed  over  the  graves  of  such.  Persons  of  high  moral  prin- 
ciple may  tolerate  them — may  bear  with  them — but  they 
cannot  love  them  any  more  than  they  can  love  the  sting  of 
nettles,  or  the  noise  of  mosquitoes.  Many  a  man  has  been 
driven  to  the  tavern,  and  to  dissipation,  by  a  peevish,  fretful 
wife.  Many  a  wife  has  been  made  miserable  by  a  peevish, 
fretful  husband.  A  complaining  fault-finder  in  a  family  is 
like  the  continual  chafing  of  an  inflamed  sore.  Woe  to  the 
man,  woman,  or  child,  who  is  exposed  to  the  influence  of 
such  a  temper  in  another !  Nine-tenths  of  all  domestic  trials 
and  unhappiness  spring  from  this  source. 

It  DEFEATS  THE  END  OF  FAMILY  GOVERNMENT. Good 

family  government  is  the  blending  authority  with  affection,  so 
as  to  secure  respect  and  love.    Indeed,  this  is  the  grand  secret 


74  SIN    AND    FOLLY    OF    FRETTING. 

of  managing  young  persons.  Now,  yonr  fretters  may  inspire 
fear,  but  they  always  make  two  faults  where  they  correct  one. 
Scolding  a  child,  fretting  at  a  child,  sneering  at  a  child,  taunt- 
ing a  child,  treating  a  child  as  though  it  had  no  feelings, 
inspires  dread  and  dislike,  and  fosters  those  very  dispositions 
from  which  many  of  the  worst  faults  of  childhood  proceed. 

It  makes  hypocrites. — As  a  fretter  never  receives  con- 
fidence and  affection,  so  no  one  likes  to  tell  them  any  thing 
disagreeable,  and  thus  procure  for  themselves  a  fretting. 
How  children  always  conceal  as  much  as  they  can  from  such 
persons.  They  cannot  make  up  their  minds  to  be  frank  and 
open-hearted.  So  husbands  conceal  from  their  wives,  and 
wives  from  their  husbands.  For  a  man  may  brave  a  lion, 
but  who  likes  to  come  in  contact  with  nettles  and  mosquitoes? 

It  destroys  one's  peace  of  mind. — The  more  one  frets 
the  more  one  may.  A  fretter  will  always  have  enough  to 
fret  at ;  specially  if  he  or  she  has  the  bump  of  order  and 
neatness  largely  developed.  Something  will  always  be  out 
of  place.  There  will  always  be  something  wrong  some- 
where. Others  will  not  eat  right,  look  right,  sit  right,  talk 
right,  act  right ;  i.  e.  will  not  do  these  things  so  as  to  please 
them.  And  fretters  are  generally  so  selfish  as  to  have  no  re- 
gard to  any  one's  comfort  but  their  own. 

It  is  a  mark  of  a  vulgar,  selfish  disposition. — Some 
persons  have  so  much  gall  in  their  dispositions,  are  so  selfish, 
that  they  seem  to  have  no  regard  to  the  feelings  of  others. 
All  things  must  be  done  to  please  them.  They  make  their 
husbands,  wives,  children,  domestics,  the  conductors  by  which 
their  spleen  and  ill-nature  are  discharged.  Woe  to  the  chil- 
dren who  are  exposed  to  such  influences !  It  makes  them 
callous  and  unfeeling,  and  when  they  grow  up  they  pursue 
the  same  course  with  their  own  children,  or  those  entrusted 
to  their  management,  and  thus  the  race  of  fretters  is  perpetua- 
ted. Any  person  who  is  in  the  habit  of  fretting,  sneering,  or 
taunting  a  husband,  wife,  child,  or  domestic,  shews  either  a 
bad  disposition,  or  else  ill-breeding.  For  it  is  generally  your 
ignorant,  low-bred  people  that  are  guilty  of  such  things. 


HINTS    TO    ALL.  76 


HINTS    TO    ALL. 

BY      MRS.      L.      G.      ABELL. 

Forgiveness.  A  more  glorious  victory  cannot  be  gained 
over  another  than  this,  that  when  the  injury  began  on  his 
part,  the  kindness  begins  on  ours. 

Talents.  Dig  them  up — bring  them  to  the  light — turn 
them  over,  polish  them,  and  they  will  give  light  to  the  world. 
You  know  not  what  you  are  capable  of  doing ;  you  cannot 
sound  the  ocean  of  thought  within  you.  You  must  labor, 
keep  at  it,  and  dig  deep  and  long  before  you  will  begin  to 
realize  much.  Be  in-active — mourn  because  you  were  not 
created  a  giant  in  intellect,  and  you  will  die  a  fool. 

The  youthful  mind.  A  straw  will  make  an  impression 
on  the  virgin  snow,  but  after  a  time  a  horse's  hoof  cannot 
penetrate  it ;  so  it  is  with  the  youthful  mind.  A  trifling  word 
may  make  an  impression,  but  after  a  few  years  the  most 
powerful  appeals  may  cease  to  influence  it.  Think  of  this 
ye  who  have  the  training  of  the  infant  mind,  and  leave  such 
impressions  thereon  as  will  be  safe  to  carry  amid  the  follies 
and  temptations  of  the  world. 

Time.  God  who  is  liberal  in  all  other  gifts,  shows  us,  by 
his  own  wise  economy,  how  circumspect  we  should  be  in 
the  management  of  our  time,  for  he  never  gives  us  two  mo- 
ments together.  He  only  gives  us  the  second  when  he  takes 
away  the  first,  and  keeps  the  third  in  his  own  hands,  leav- 
ing us  in  absolute  uncertainty  whether  it  shall  ever  become 
ours  or  not ! 

Reproof.  Never  reprove  any  one  when  they  are  angry. 
But  go  in  the  cool  of  reason,  and  passion  ,  when  all  is  quiet 
within,  for  then  you  have  the  greatest  probability  of  success. 

Little  things  no  trifles.     The  nerve  of  a  tooth,  not 
as  large  as  the  finest  cambric  needle,  will  sometimes  drive 
a  strong  man  to  distraction.     A  musqueto  can  make  an  ele 
phant  absolutely  mad.     The  coral  rock  whicii  causes  a  navy 


76  HINTS    TO    ALL. 

to  founder,  is  the  work  of  an  insect.  The  warrior  that  with- 
stood death  in  a  thousand  forms,  may  be  killed  by  an  insect. 
The  deepest  wretchedness  often  results  from  a  perpetual 
continuation  of  petty  trials.  The  formation  of  character 
often  depends  on  circumstances  apparently  the  most  trivial, 
an  impulse,  a  casual  conversation,  a  chance  visit,  or  some- 
things equally  unimportant,  has  changed  the  whole  destiny 
of  life,  and  has  resulted  in  virtue  or  vice — in  weal  or  in  woe  ! 

How  TO  MAKE  HOME  HAPPY.  It  is  not  the  imposing  ma- 
jesty of  a  sumptuous  mansion,  nor  the  hollow  glare  of  gaudy 
furniture,  nor  the  obsequious  attention  of  servants,  that  make 
the  blessedness  of  home.  No ;  it  is  the  steady  exercise  of 
those  holy  charities,  that  soothes  our  sorrows,  and  that  builds 
the  nest  of  peace,  love,  and  true  enjoyment  in  our  bosoms. 
It  is  mutual  respect  and  attention,  a  kind  consideration  of 
each  others  feelings,  under  all  circumstances — a  sympathy 
in  our  cares,  a  regard  to  our  interests,  the  exercise  of  a  pa- 
tient and  forbearing,  and  forgiving  temper,  that  makes  home 
the  "  only  Paradise  that  has  survived  the  fall."  And  let  it 
never  be  forgotten,  that  even  a  smile  or  a  frown  may  gild 
with  brightness,  or  overcast  with  clouds,  the  whole  horizon 
of  that  sacred  spot — home. 

An  unsubdued  temper.  Beware  of  that  being,  who  in- 
dulges in  an  uncontroled  temper,  if  you  desire  peace  and 
happiness.  Many  a  lofty  mind  and  noble  genius,  has  by  its 
influence  become  the  bane  of  friendship,  the  curse  of  home, 
and  the  dread  of  society.  It  destroys  the  peace  of  families, 
poisons  the  fountains  of  happiness,  and  dries  up  the  source 
of  every  pleasure.  Beauty,  wit,  wealth,  talents,  fame  and 
honor,  can  never  be  a  substitute.  This  one  gem  outweighs 
them  all,  an  amiable  temper. 

The  value  of  time.  "  I  shall  only  be  idle  a  minute."  A 
minute  !  in  this  time  many  a  noble  action  has  been  perform- 
ed. A  minute  !  when  resolutions  have  been  made  that  have 
changed  the  after  current  of  life.  A  minute  !  in  the  space 
which  a  tear  reached  the  eye  of  the  repentant  prodigal. 


-A 


53' 

to 

s 


DESCRIPTION   OF 
THE    LAST    SUPPER. 

Jesus  Christ,  the  victim  and  priest  of  the  great  sacrifice, 
is  seated  at  the  centre  of  the  table,  where,  his  resplendent 
majesty,  shines  out  c^mong  the  Apostles,  having  declared  the 
presence  of  the  traitor.  "  And,  as  they  did  eat,  he  said, 
Verily  I  say  unto  you,  that  one  of  you  shall  betray  me. 
And  they  were  exceeding  sorrowful,  and  began  every  one 
of  them  to  say  unto  him.  Lord,  is  it  I  ?" 

He  has  his  eyes  cast  down  as  though  they  would  shun  the 
meeting  with  those  of  the  betrayer.  Behold  depicted  on 
his  countenance  such  holy  devotion,  such  grief^  such  great- 
ness of  soul,  and  so  many  other  noble  qualities,  as  the  spec- 
tator may  indeed  discover,  but  no  pen  can  describe.  Behind 
the  figure  of  Christ  you  see  the  luminous  sky,  and  all  pre- 
eminence is  given  to  that  divine  head  which  Leonardo, 
though  satisfied  with  himself,  still  declared  to  be  imperfect. 

1.  Sweetness  and  purity  are  expressed  in  the  downcast 
eyes  of  the  beloved  disciple,  John,  who  is  nearest  to  the 
Lord  ;  absorb'd  in  the  deepest  sorrow,  his  head  drooping  on 
his  shoulder,  his  arms  relaxed,  his  crossed  hands  laid  on  the 
table,  and  the  whole  figure  abandoned  to  grief. 

2.  The  traitor,  Judas,  sits  between  John  and  Peter,  lean- 
ing on  the  table  with  his  right  arm,  and  grasping  the  neck 
of  the  money  bag  in  his  hand. 

3.  Peter  is  seen  full  of  ardor,  and  more  agitated  than  the 
other  Apostles ;  with  his  left  hand  he  touches  the  shoulder 
of  John,  speaking  at  the  same  time  in  his  ear,  as  if  denoun- 
cing the  traitor,  and  in  his  right  holding  a  knife. 

4.  Andrew,  the  brother  of  Peter,  has  a  dish  of  fish  before 

VOL.  VI.    NO.  3. 


82  THE    LAST    SUPPER. 

him,  denoting  he  is  a  fisherman ;  his  hands  are  upraised  and 
spread  out,  and  his  countenance  expresses  surprise  and 
astonishment. 

5.  Next  is  seen  James,  the  Greater,  who  resembles  the 
Saviour,  being  also  a  Nazarene.  He  also  appears  to  be 
amazed,  and  is  touching  the  arm  of  Peter,  as  in  the  act  of 
addressing  him. 

6.  Philip  »^  nobly  dressed  in  the  Roman  costume ;  he 
appears  to  oe  doubtful  of  having  under'stood  aright  the  say- 
ing of  me  Master,  from  being  situated  at  the  extreme  end 
of  the  table,  both  hands  are  placed  on  the  table,  as  he  rises 
up,  and,  seems  earnestly  desirous  to  know  who  is  the  traitor. 

7.  The  first  on  the  left  of  the  Saviour  is  Thomas,  who 
exhibits  much  astonishment,  and,  by  his  sarcastic  smile, 
seems  to  doubt  the  truth  of  what  has  just  been  said  by  the 
Divine  Master. 

8.  Jude  appears  agitated  with  affliction  ;  with  the  most 
fervent  action,  his  forefinger  is  raised  upwards,  and  his 
countenance  expresses  the  words  of  the  Evangelist,  "  Lord, 
is  it  I  ?" 

9.  Simon  appears  under  great  excitement ;  he  seems 
anxious  to  justify  himself  with  the  Master,  and  not  to  be 
considered  as  the  traitor  ;  with  both  hands  he  is  in  the  act 
of  opening  his  vest,  as  if  to  demonstrate  the  innocence  of 
his  heart. 

10.  Matthew,  as  a  publican,  a  man  of  the  world,  he 
appears  to  sustain  the  character  of  his  former  calling ; 
turning  to  his  neighbors,  and  asking  them  if  they  have  heard 
what  has  been  said. 

11.  Bartholomew.  This  Apostle  has  the  countenance  of 
a  sincere  man,  and  openly  shows  his  indignation  while  talking 
with  James  the  Less  on  the  subject  of  the  treachery  that  has 
been  disclosed. 

12.  The  last  is  James,  the  Less,  who  exhibits  the  appear- 
ance of  a  good  old  man,  and  by  the  movement  of  his  hands, 
as  also  by  the  expression  of  his  face,  appears  to  repeat  and 
confirm  the  words  spoken  by  the  Saviour. 


PRAYER    FOR    A    DEAR    FAMILY.  88i. 


Original. 


PRAYER    FOR    A    DEAR    FAMILY, 


BY     MRS.     M.     ST.     LEON     LOUD. 

Blessings  oh  Father !  shower 
Rich  blessings  on  this  household  from  on  high ; 
May  no  dark  cloud  o'er  cast  their  sunny  sky, 

Nor  tempest  lower — 
But  the  sweet  Dove  of  peace,  a  cherish'd  guest. 
In  their  home's  hallowed  ark  take  up  her  rest. 

Oh !  bless  them  in  the  ties 
The  holy,  tender  ties  of  husband — wife — 
Which  Thou  hast  flung  around  them ;  guard  from  strife 

Earth's  choicest  prize, 
Domestic  love,  unsullied  by  a  fear 
Tliat  aught  but  death  can  change  the  fond  heart  here. 

Saviour !  Thou  who  did'st  take 
Young  children  in  thy  arms — oh !  look  on  these. 
Who  lisp  sweet  accents  at  their  parents  knees, 

And  ne'er  forsake ; 
But  through  life's  wilderness  direct  their  feet, 
To  the  blest  fold  where  all  thy  lambs  shall  meet 

And  oh  !  bless  thou  their  store. 
Reward  their  labors  with  a  bounteous  hand. 
And  may  their  hearts  incline  to  thy  command — 

Think  on  the  poor ; 
May  the  blest  charity  their  bosoms  warm, 
Which  shields  a  brother  from  afflictions  storm. 

Not  for  the  gifts  alone 
Which  are  of  Earth,  and  pass  with  time  away 
For  those  I  love  with  deep  desire  I  pray- 
But  from  thy  throne 
Bow  down  thine  ear  Most  Holy  !   and  bestow, 
The  blessings  which  from  tJiee  alone  can  flow. 


84  WE    ARE    GROWING    OLB. 

'  May  peace,  and  heavenly  joy 

That  passeth  human  understanding,  fill 
Their  inmost  souls,  and  grateful  praises  still 

Their  tongues  employ ; 
And  aspirations  of  pure  love  arise. 
In  clouds  of  spirit  incense  to  the  skies. 

Yet  one  more  hoon  I  crave. 
For  those !  Oh  Father !  whom  my  soul  holds  dear ; 
When  thy  last  solemn  messenger  draws  near. 

And  Jordan's  wave. 
Lies  just  before  them — be  their  stay  and  guide, 
Through  death's  dark  vale — Thou  Bless'd,  thou  Crucified ! 

I  leave  them  in  thy  hand, 
Most  Merciful !  now  and  forevermore 
Thy  will  be  done  !  and  when  on  Heaven's  bright  shore 

With  joy  we  stand. 
Our  ransomed  souls  shall  swell  the  sacred  song, 
"  Glory  and  honor  to  the  Lamb  belong." 


WE    ARE   GROWING    OLD. 

BY     B.     F.    ROMAINE. 

We  are  growing  old,  but  our  feet  may  track 

The  path  to  the  upper  life. 
And  our  thoughts  ne'er  go  with  the  worldling's  back 

To  j'ears  of  our  former  strife. 
For  our  eye  on  Heaven's  resplendent  morn 

May  be  fixed  with  iindimmed  gaze, 
'Till  Earth  from  the  spiritual  vision  is  borne, 

And  lost  in  the  ancient  of  days : 
There's  a  youth  of  the  soul  that  ne'er  grows  old. 

However  the  body  decay, 
lliat  flashes  the  brighter  like  purified  gold, 

Its  dross  all  melted  away ; 
'Tis  youth  immortal— Christ  is  its  source, 

Its  hidden  life  to  unfold; 
He  gives  it— He  keeps  it-- -He  follows  its  course— 

The  spirit  will  ne'er  grow  old. 


THE    LOST    SON.  85 

Original. 

THE    LOST    SON.* 
THE    DESCENDING    SCALE. 

EDITORIAL. 

Mr.  Mansel  seldom  corrected  his  son,  for  he  found  that  it 
did  no  good — it  only  raised  a  storm  and  made  matters 
worse.  In  the  course  of  the  day,  he  spoke  to  Walter  pri- 
vately, and  set  forth  the  fearful  enormity  of  his  crime  and 
the  fatal  consequences  to  which  it  might  lead.  But  he  was 
deaf  to  all  he  could  say.  Time  wore  away,  but  it  brought 
no  change  for  the  better,  Mrs.  Mansel  was  gay  and  frivo- 
lous as  ever — the  son  as  reckless.  Like  his  mother  before 
him,  Walter  showed  an  early  distaste  for  his  books  and  could 
not  endure  the  confinement  of  study.  Never  having  rea- 
lized the  importance  of  education  herself  and  not  feeling  her 
own  deficiences,  Mrs.  Mansel  had  no  fear  but  that  her  bril- 
liant son  would  happily  make  his  way  through  the  world, 
and  make  a  very  conspicuous  figure  among  men,  without 
worrying  his  life  out  of  him  to  accumulate  useless  lumber. 
She  could  not  see  but  that  he  had  thus  far,  got  along  as 
well  without  study  as  others  had  with,  and,  at  any  rate,  she 
did  not  doubt  his  genius  would  overcome  all  obstacles. 
And  truly  the  boy  possessed  genius ;  but  what  is  genius 
without  mental  discipline  ?  He  did  indeed  overcome  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  obstacles,  but  they  were  such  as  he  met  in  the 
way  of  sinful  indulgence ;  He  needed  but  little  education  to 
prepare  him  for  a  life  of  pleasure  and  crime,  such  as  his 
mother  and  his  own  inclination  suf^eested. 

Other  years  rolled  away,  and  now  Walter  had  reached 
eighteen,  the  period  when  the  boy  begins  to  put  on  the  airs 

♦Concluded  from  the  51st   page. 


86  THE    LOST    SON. 

of  a  man,  and  feels  that  he  can  no  longer  endure  control. 
He  was  a  bold,  dashing  blade.  He  was  found  less  and  less 
in  his  mother's  society,  but  spent  most  of  his  time,  in  com- 
pany of  associates  as  unprincipled  as  himself  The  year 
before  he  had  commenced  the  career  of  fashionable  amuse- 
ments, by  going  to  a  ball.  This  he  knew  was  contrary  to 
his  father's  wishes  and  commands.  Often  he  had  spoken  to 
him  of  the  danger  from  this  quarter.  His  next  step  was  the 
BILLIARD  ROOM  and  the  gaming  table,  where  one  evening  he 
lost  a  large  sum  which  he  had  abstracted  from  the  drawer 
of  his  father's  writing  desk,  by  means  of  a  false  key.  Next, 
he  went  to  the  THEATRE,  the  high  road  to  perdition; 
from  thence  he  passed  to  *  *  *.  The  course  he  now 
pursued  even  excited  the  fears  of  his  mother  ;  but  still,  so 
infatuated  was  she,  whenever  Mr.  Mansel  ventured  to  re- 
prove him,  she  would  apologise  for  him,  by  saying,  "  it  was 
hard  indeed  if  Walter  could  not  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  which 
young  men  generally  partake  ;  she  could  not  believe  he  was 
WORSE  than  others,  nor  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  take 
CARE  OF  HIMSELF,"  Thus  did  she  tamper  with  his  vices  and 
counteract  all  the  good  effect  of  his  father's  counsels. 

At  length  Walter  reached  the  fourth  step  of  the  descend- 
ing ladder — the  penalty.  To  furnish  himself  with  the 
means  of  indulgence,  in  concert  with  some  of  his  associates, 
he  waylaid  a  gentleman  one  evening,  and  robbed  him  of  a 
considerable  amount  of  money.  Long  after  midnight  a 
noise  was  heard  at  the  front  door  and  the  bell  hastily  rung. 
On  opening  the  door  Mr,  Mansel  was  accosted  by  an  officer 
of  the  police,  who  inquired  whether  his  son  Walter  was  in, 
observing  at  the  same  time,  that  they  had  come  to  arrest 
him  for  a  daring  robbery.  His  son  was  called  up,  and  Mr. 
Mansel  accompanied  him  to  the  police  office.  A  part  of 
the  money  was  found  on  him.  The  blow  was  heavy,  but 
not  wholly  unexpected.  Mr.  Mansel  returned  in  sorrow  to 
his  dwelling,  and  ere  the  sun  rose,  he  was  seized  with  a 
sickness  which  soon  terminated  his  life  and  his  misery.  The 
fever  raged  and  he  sunk   rapidly  under  his  accumulated 


THE    LOST    SON.  87 

woes.  When  Mrs.  Mansel  approached  his  dying  bed,  he 
looked  up  and  with  solemn  emphasis  observed,  "  Madam, 

THE  FOURTH  STEP  OF  THE  LADDER  IS  REACHED the  PENALTY  !" 

These  were  his  last  words.  But  dreadful  to  relate,  instead 
of  being  stung  with  remorse,  Mrs.  Mansel  reproached  him 
with  being  the  cause  of  his  son's  ruin.  "  Did  I  not  tell  you 
so  ?  you  taught  him  the  way,  and  have  no  one  to  blame  but 
yourself."  She  left  him,  and  saw  him  no  more  until  the 
spirit  had  left  the  body. 

Owing  to  the  powerful  intercession  of  some  of  Mr.  Man- 
sel's  friends,  the  affair  of  Walter  was  privately  settled  and 
hushed  up,  and  this  time  he  escaped  the  full  penalty  of  the 
law.  The  mother  and  son  were  now  the  sole  ruling  powers 
of  the  gloomy  mansion.  They  put  on  mourning,  but  shed 
no  tears.  Lucy  alone  sorrowed  over  her  father's  grave. 
After  a  short  season  the  house  was  thrown  open,  and  pre- 
sented a  scene  of  gaity.  Mr.  Mansel  was  not  rich,  but  he 
left  enough  to  maintain  his  family  comfortably,  with  pru- 
dence and  economy.  And  now  Walter  had  full  scope. 
His  father  was  no  longer  in  his  way.  He  became  more  and 
more  dissipated  and  profligate.  Night  after  night  Mrs. 
Mansel  was  left  alone.  Sometimes  Walter  would  come 
staggering  in  at  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  At 
last  her  apprehensions  began  to  be  seriously  awakened,  and 
she  ventured  for  the  first  time,  to  rally  him  for  his  nocturnal 
irregularities.  But  this  only  provoked  a  scornful  sneer  and 
a  contemptuous  retort.  "  What,  are  you  going  to  take  up 
the  cudgels  ?  you  did  not  fear  for  me  while  the  old  man  was 
alive,  you  need  not  trouble  yourself  about  me  now  he  is 
dead  ! — I  can  take  care  of  myself." 

By  degrees  Mrs.  Mansel  began  to  awake  from  her  long 
dream,  to  see  the  dangers  which  thickened  around  the  path 
of  her  son.  But  now  it  was  too  late.  She  had  "  sown  to 
the  wind,  she  must  reap  the  whirlwind."  Whatever  might 
come,  she  saw  that  she  could  do  nothing  to  save  him.  The 
picture  of  the  descending  ladder  was  ever  before  her,  and 
her  injured  husband's  last  words  rung  perpetually  in  her 


88  THE    LOST    SON". 

ears.  **  The  fourth  step  of  the  ladder  is  reached  !"  She 
lived  now  daily  in  the  expectation  of  some  new  calamity. 
She  became  exceedingly  nervous.  Sleep  forsook  her  pil- 
low— She  imagined  a  thousand  things.  Conscience  no 
longer  whispered,  but  spake  in  thunder  tones  ;  a  cloud  rested 
upon  her — suddenly  it  burst  upon  her  head. 

While  seated  alone,  one  day,  the  door  opened  and  the 
servant  handed  her  a  note.  It  was  from  the  Cashier  of  the 
Bank,  in  which  her  husband  had  deposited  the  little  all  of 
money  he  had  left  her.  He  informed  her,  her  son  had  drawn 
out  the  whole  sum,  one  thousand  dollars.  Oh,  the  tortures 
of  that  moment  ?  Her  own,  her  darling  son  had  robbed 
her !  She  raged  like  a  maniac — the  fountain  of  tears  was 
broken  up,  and  she  wept  bitterly  and  loivg.  At  one  time 
she  would  accuse  herself — then  her  wicked  son.  That  night 
Walter  did  not  return — ^nor  till  late  next  day,  when  he  was 
brought  home  in  a  state  of  beastly  intoxication,  his  face 
bloody,  and  his  clothes  torn.  Mrs.  Mansel  passed  a  night 
of  agony.  The  moaning  of  the  wind  mingled  with  her  son's 
incoherent  ravings ;  the  broken  sentences  caught  her  ear. 
"  A  pin  a — a  penny,  a  p — ound  !  the  money  !  the  money ! 
blast  you  !  curse  you  !  undone — lost  ! "  At  ten  o'clock 
next  day,  having  recovered  somewhat  from  his  drunken 
fit,  Walter  came  down  and  rudely  said  to  his  mother, 
"  Give  me  some  food  ? "  Food  was  put  upon  the  table, 
and  while  he  ate  in  silence,  Mrs.  Mansel  with  a  faulter- 
ing  tougue,  inquired,  "  Walter,  my  son,  what  have  you 
done  with  the  thousand  dollars  you  drew  from  the  bank  ? " 
at  first  he  made  as  though  he  did  not  hear  her.  She  re- 
peated the  (question.  He  then  turned  and  in  a  somewhat 
subdued  tone,  said,  "  Mother,  it  is  all  gone  !  the  rascals 
have  got  it.  It  has  turned  out  as  Father  said,  a  pin,  a 
PENNY,  A  pound,  A  PENALTY ! "  What  could  the  mother 
say  ?  She  saw  the  prediction  fulfilled,  but  not  all  ;  the 
rest  and  the  worst,  she  saw  was  to  come,  when  he  had  filled 
up  the  measure  of  his  iniquity.  For  the  moment  she  lost 
the  power  of  utterance.     Then  she  broke  forth ;   "  O  my 


THE    LOST    SON.  89 

ion !  will  you  not,  for  my  sake,  abandon  your  vile  associ- 
ates and  reform  your  life!"  The  appeal,  alas,  was  made 
to  a  heart,  in  which  long  since,  every  virtuous  senti- 
ment and  feeling  had  become  extinct.  The  young  man 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  ere  he  left  the  room,  said,  "  Mother, 
Father  was  right ;  but  your  warnings  have  come  too  late. 
I  have  descended  the  ladder,  and  it  remains  for  me  to  fulfil 
my  destiny  ! "  He  pulled  the  door  hastily  after  him — she 
saw  him  no  more  until  she  met  him  at  the  gallows. 

In  a  desperate  encounter  with  the  man  who  won  his 
money,  he  killed  him,  was  arrested,  tried  for  murder,  con- 
victed and  sentenced  to  an  ignominious  death.  And  now 
behold  him  on  the  fatal  platform,  waiting  the  moment  of 
execution.  That  morning  he  sent  for  his  mother,  and  now 
as  the  moments  gloomily  passed,  he  waited  her  arrival. 
She  came — the  crowd  gave  way ;  she  stands  before  her 
son  in  speechless  agony !  She  sunk  down  at  his  feet  and 
earnestly  implored  his  forgiveness,  ere  he  left  the  world. 
Walter's  eye  flashed  with  terrible  brightness,  as  for  the  last 
time,  he  fixed  them  on  his  teiTor  stricken,  wretched  mother. 
Then  in  a  tone  of  despair,  and  with  a  look  of  fiendish  tri- 
umph, he  said,  "  Woman,  there  is,  there  can  be  no  forgive- 
ness for  guilt  like  yours.  You  have  killed  the  best  of  hus- 
bands and  fathers,  and  ruined  your  son.     Remember,  *  a 

PIN,    A     PENNY,    A     POUND,    A    PENALTY,    PERDITION  !'    yOU    firSt 

taught  me  to  descend  the  ladder,  and  now  nought  but  perdi- 
tion awaits  us  both!"  She  fainted — ^the  drop  fell,  and  the 
soul  of  Walter  Mansel  was  in  *  *  *  *.  A  few  weeks 
passed,  and  Mrs.  Mansel  was  no  more — the  mother  was 
with  the  son. 

Reader,  if  you  are  a  mother,  and  neglecting  the  religious 
education  of  your  son,  and  preparing  him  by  your  example 
for  a  life  of  pleasure  and  crime,  behold,  as  in  a  glass,  your 
own  picture  in  this  narrative,  and,  before  it  be  too  late,  re- 
pent and  change  your  course.  Too  indulgent  mother,  see 
where  you  are  leading  your  son.  Let  the  gay  and  thought- 
less wife  who  is  daily  counteracting  the  efforts  and  prayers 


•0  THE    LOST    SON. 

of  a  pious  husband,  think  what  misery  she  may  entail  upon 
her  children  and  herself,  by  refusing  her  kind  co-operation  in 
the  hallowed  work,  and  let  the  son  who  has  ventured  upon 
the  path  of  disobedience  and  crime,  here  contemplate  its 
end.     Let  the  words  never  be  forgotten.     A  pin,  a  penny, 

A    POUND,    A    PENALTY,    PERDITION  ! 


WHAT    DO    WE   ADMIRE    IN    WOMAN. 

"  Do  you  know,"  says  an  ingenious  writer,  "  what  we 
must  admire  in  you  ?  It  is  not  your  dress  ;  we  could  make 
a  beast  fine  with  trappings.  It  is  not  your  abilities ;  it  would 
not  be  your  abilities,  if  you  had  such  powers  as  angels  have : 
for,  indeed,  what  but  a  fine  creature  is  Gabriel  to  us  ?  a  fine 
speculation,  more  beautiful  than  the  rainbow  to  look  at;  but 
what  is  it  to  us  ?  What  we  admire,  and  what  we  ought  to 
admire,  in  man,  is  that  collection  of  fine  feelings  which  make 
him  a  human  creature,  social  and  useful.  Sympathy  and 
fellow  feeling,  tenderness  of  heart  and  pity  for  the  wretched, 
compassion  for  your  neighbors,  and  reverence  for  your  God, 
the  melting  eye,  the  soothing  tone,  the  silver  features,  the 
ingenious  devices,  the  rapid  actions  of  a  soul  all  penetrated 
with  reason  and  religion,  these  are  the  qualities  we  admire 
in  you.  O,  I  love  the  soul  that  must  and  will  do  good,  the 
kind  creature  that  runs  to  the  sick  bed,  I  might  rather  say 
bedstead,  of  a  poor  neighbor,  wipes  away  the  moisture  of  a 
fever,  smooths  the  clothes,  beats  up  the  pillow,  fills  the 
pitcher,  sets  it  within  reach,  administers  only  a  cup  of  cold 
water ;  but  in  the  true  spirit  of  a  disciple  of  Christ  becomes 
a  fellow  worker  with  Christ  in  the  administration  of  happi- 
ness to  mankind.  Peace  be  with  that  good  soul !  She  also 
must  come  in  due  time  into  the  condition  of  her  neighbor, 
and  then  may  the  Lord  strengthen  her  upon  the  bed  of  lan- 
guishing, and,  by  some  kind  hand  like  her  own,  make  all  her 
bed  in  her  sickness." 


THE    INDIAN    LOVEE.  91 


Original. 

THE    INDIAN    LOVER. 

A    TRUE    TALE. 

BY     MRS.     L.     KINGMAN. 

'TwAs  a  delightful  evening  in  September  when  I  arrivea 

at  the  little  town  of  A ;  the  day  had  been  very  sultry, 

and  the  almost  boundless  prairies  which  extended  them- 
selves before  me  during  the  day,  their  beauties  either  seared 
by  an  untimely  frost  or  burnt  to  blackness  by  the  hunter  or 
Indian  for  the  accommodation  of  self,  had  wearied  my  vision 
and  exhausted  my  spirits  in  a  manner  that  I  had  almost  sank 
into  a  state  of  unconsciousness,  when  aroused  by  my  com- 
panion to  view  the  picturesque  scenery  before  me.  We  had 
now  began  to  descend  the  bluff  of  the  Mississippi,  and 
although  the  plain  which  intervened  between  the  river  and 
its  bluff  was  six  miles  in  its  width,  the  noble  river  seemed 
to  lie  at  our  feet  in  all  its  breadth  and  beautiful  windings  ;  a 
little  sluice  was  seen  to  put  out  from  the  river  and  running 
along  like  a  truant  child,  until  it  had  nearly  reached  the 
steep  we  were  descending,  gently  turned  its  course  toward 
its  parent  stream  and  disappeared.  The  little  hamlet  lying 
on  the  bank  of  the  sluice  wore  an  air  of  comfort  and  plenty 
seldom  found  in  so  newly  settled  a  section  of  our  country, 
the  houses  were  neatly  built  of  brick,  the  cottages  of  logs, 
but  so  completely  enveloped  in  the  vine  of  the  honeysuckle 
and  trumpet-flower,  as  to  puzzle  the  beholder  as  to  their  con- 
struction, as  well  as  giving  them  an  air  of  comfort  seldom 
found  in  the  western  wilds ;  it  did  indeed  seem  the  work  of 
some  fairy  hand.  The  taste  of  the  Atlantic  States  was  con- 
spicuous in  their  farms,  their  houses,  and  their  gardens.  On 
our  enquiry,  we  found  as  we  anticipated,  the  place  princi- 
pally built  and  inhabited  by  New  Englanders  ;    being   in 


92  THE    INDIAN    LOVER. 

search  of  health  as  well  as  happiness,  and  somewhat  fatigued 
with  travelling,  I  concluded  to  become  an  inhabitant  of  that 
delightful  village  for  a  few  weeks.  I  found  its  inhabitants  a 
truly  happy  people  ;  each  eve  as  the  day  declined  and  the 
breezes  sprang  up  rendering  the  air  inviting,  we  were  wont 
to  assemble  at  some  one  of  the  houses  and  hear  from  the 
first  settlers,  who  in  turn  told  tales  of  by-gone  days,  an  ad- 
venture of  their  early  settlement,  a  love  story,  a  Wolf  hunt, 
or  a  Panther's  visit,  our  evening  entertainment  was  con- 
cluded by  partaking  of  a  collation  of  fruit,  and  of  wine,  for 
that  was  before  the  good  days  of  Washingtonianism,  made 
from  the  native  grape  of  the  country.  A  tale  given  by  the 
eldest  of  the  settlers  is  indelibly  impressed  on  my  memory. 
"  I,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  fourteen  years  since,  left  my 
beloved  New  England,  and  emigrated  to  this  place  accom- 
panied by  my  four  brothers,  each  having  families ;  we 
sought  out  this  spot  which  now  so  much  interests  you. 
Then  was  it  nought  but  a  vast  wilderness,  the  sound  of  the 
woodman's  axe  had  never  been  heard,  and  as  w^e  presume, 
the  foot  of  the  white  man  never  before  pressed  the  soil ;  the 
Indian  was  often  our  visitor,  and  the  Bear  and  the  Panther, 
who  had  heretofore  roamed  undisturbed,  would  often  fre- 
quent their  accustomed  walk,  and  pay  us  a  visit.  With  a 
few  hours  labor  we  collected  logs  and  erected  a  camp  in 
which  we  placed  our  young  families,  the  forest  supplied  us 
with  meats  of  the  most  delicious  kind,  and  the  Indian  would 
bring  us  corn  and  pumpkins  from  the  upper  settlements. 

"  The  Autumn  yielded  us  abundant  crops,  and  the  ensuing 
Winter  was  spent  in  much  enjoyment.  Spring  again  opened 
to  us  in  all  its  beauty,  surpassing  if  possible  the  former. 
We  commenced  building  our  houses  which  we  now  inhabit, 
our  young  friends,  our  children  seemed  more  than  ever  to 
enjoy  their  rambles  o'er  the  gay  lawn  ;  Mary  and  Eliza  in 
their  walks  were  inseparable ;  they  were  cousins,  both  at 
the  interesting  age  of  eighteen,  both  beautiful,  or,  so  our 
village  deemed  them,  Mary's  form  was  of  the  most  perfect 
symmetry,  tall,  erect  and  commanding,  her  long  tresses  of 


THE    INDIAN    LOVER.  93 

dark  brown  hair,  neatly  braided  and  laid  in  folds  over  her 
brow,  contrasting  with  its  snowy  whiteness,  adding  much  to 
the  beauty  of  her  face.  Eliza  was  much  smaller  than  Mary, 
and  was  considered  more  beautiful ;  she  was  an  only  daugh- 
ter and  had  been  reared  with  much  tenderness  ;  an  air  of 
modest  diffidence  spread  over  her  features,  which  rendered 
her  an  object  of  interest  to  every  beholder.  As  we  were 
engaged  about  our  houses  one  day,  we  were  alarmed  by 
seeing  the  young  ladies  running  toward  us  followed  by  an 
Jridian.  We  immediately  ran  to  meet  them,  when  the 
Indian  prostrated  himself  at  our  feet  begging  us  to  give  him 
Mary  to  be  his  squaw.  He  stated,  that  he  was  a  chief,  or 
rather  the  son  of  a  chief,  was  big-man,  owned  dogs,  coon- 
skins,  and  all  the  et  cetera  of  an  Indian  wigwam  ;  he  per- 
ceived his  entreaties  to  be  unavailing,  and  left  us.  When 
the  girls  related  their  encounter  with  him,  it  appeared  they 
had  gone  into  an  adjacent  prairie  to  gather  strawberries, 
and  feeling  in  a  frolicksome  mood,  they  had  displaced  their 
combs,  letting  their  long  hair  fall  over  their  shoulders,  and 
in  imitation  of  the  Indian,  painted  their  faces  with  the  berries 
they  had  gathered  ;  in  this  situation,  they  sought  the  bank 
of  the  river,  and  unexpectedly  came  upon  an  encampment 
of  Indians.  Eliza's  natural  fearfulness  of  character  made 
her  immediately  shrink  from  the  gaze  of  the  savage  ;  she 
retired,  but  Mary  stood  fixed  in  astonishment,  seemingly, 
without  power  to  move  until  the  young  chief,  before  men- 
tioned, had  gradually  stolen  nearer  and  nearer  to  her,  when 
he  severed  from  her  head  one  of  the  long  braids,  at  the 
same  time  entreating  her  to  become  his  squaw.  Aroused  to 
a  sense  of  her  perilous  situation,  she  uttered  one  loud  shriek 
and  fled  ;  the  Indian  followed,  exclaiming,  "  pretty  squaw, 
white  squaw,  pretty  hair ;  she  flew  with  the  swiftness  of  a 
Rein-deer,  her  remaining  tresses  floating  on  the  breeze. 
She  soon  gained  her  cousin  who  had  nearly  reached  home  ; 
for  many  days  did  this  young  chief  visit  this  settlement, 
pleading  in  all  the  earnestness  and  artlessness  of  his  native 
character   for   the  beauteous   Mary   to  become  his  bride. 


94  THE    INDIAN    LOVER. 

The  tribe  at  length  left  our  shores,  but  each  successive 
Spring  for  five  years  brought  the  Indian  lover  bearing  some 
little  present  to  his  beloved,  and  each  time  more  earnestly 
pressing  his  suit ;  although  not  congenial  with  her  feelings, 
yet  through  fear,  Mary  was  obliged  to  accept  his  pre- 
sents and  listen  to  his  solicitation  ;  he  believed  the  only 
obstacle  to  their  union,  was  her  dislike  to  leave  her  parents 
and  her  cousin  Eliza.  Spring  again  returned  but  brought 
not  the  Indian  suitor,  it  was  the  Spring  of  — 32  ;  the  tribe 
to  which  he  belonged  had  declared  war  against  the  whites, 
several  bloody  skirmishes  had  ensued,  the  most  remarkable 
of  which  was  the  second  battle  of  bad  axe  ;  the  Indians  were 
driven  from  the  scene  of  action  with  much  loss.  Some  of 
our  neigbors,  while  in  the  act  of  interring  the  dead,  recog- 
nized the  well  known  features  of  Mary's  lover,  his  long 
black  glossy  hair  was  tied  on  the  top  of  his  head,  and  unlike 
the  rest  of  his  tribe  was  un-ornamented,  save  with  the  long 
braid  he  had  years  before  severed  from  the  head  of  his 
Mary.  Mary  is  still  with  us,  and  often  boasts  of  having  an 
offer,  although  not  married,  and  that  too,  from  one  of  the 
royal  family,  the  son  and- heir  of  king  Black  Hawk. 


THE    HEART. 

The  heart  is  a  soil  in  which  every  ill  weed  will  take  root 
and  spread  itself.  The  thorns  of  worldly  care,  and  the 
thistles  of  worldly  vanity,  will  grow  and  flourish.  As  the 
husbandman  watches  his  land,  so  should  the  Christian  search 
and  examine  his  heart,  that  he  may  cast  out  of  it  all  those 
unprofitable  weeds  and  roots  of  bitterness  which  will  natu- 
rally get  possession  of  it.  If  this  work  is  rightly  performed, 
the  soil  will  be  ready  for  the  good  seed  of  the  word  of  God, 
which  will  spring  up  and  prosper  under  the  influence  of  di- 
vine grace,  as  the  corn  groweth  by  a  blessing  of  rain  and 
sunshine  from  the  Heaven  above. 


THE        EVIL        HOLLOW. 

AN    INCIDBNT    OB-    KHAL    LIFE 

In  the  town  of  Catskill,  on  the  Hudson  river,  there  flwelt,  some 
twenty  years  ago,  an  attorney  of  the  name  of  Mason.  He  was  in 
considerable  practice,  and  had  two  clerks  in  his  office,  whose  names 
were  Mansell  and  Van  Buren.  In  point  of  ability  these  young  men 
were  nearly  on  a  par,  but  they  differed  widely  in  disposition.  Van 
Buren  was  cold,  close,  and  somewhat  sullen  in  temper  ;  but  in  busi- 
ness shrewd,  active,  and  persevering.  Mansell,  although  assiduous  in 
his  duties,  was  of  a  gayer  temperament ;  open  as  the  day,  generous, 
confiding,  and  free. 

Mason,  without  being  absolutely  dishonest,  was  what  is  called  a 
keen  lawyer,  his  practice  being  somewhat  of  the  sharpest ;  and  as 
the  disposition  of  his  elder  clerk,  Van  Buren,  assimilated,  in  many 
respects,  to  his  own,  he  was  a  great  favorite — more  intimately  in  his 
confidence,  and  usually  employed  in  those  delicate  matters  which 
sometimes  occur  in  an  attorney's  business,  and  in  which  the  straight- 
forward honesty  of  Mansell  might  rather  hinder  than  help. 

Mason  had  a  niece  who,  he  being  a  bachelor,  lived  with  him  in  the 
capacity  of  housekeeper.  She  was  a  lively,  sensitive,  and  clever 
girl — very  pretty,  if  not  positively  handsome.  She  had  the  grace  of 
a  sylph,  and  the  step  of  a  fawn.  It  was  quite  natural  that  such  a 
maiden  should  be  an  object  of  interest  to  two  young  men  living  under 
the  same  roof — and  by  no  means  a  matter  of  astonishment  that  one 
or  both  of  them  should  fall  in  love  with  her  ;  and  both  of  them  did. 
But,  as  the  young  lady  had  but  one  heart,  she  could  not  return  the 
love  of  each.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that,  in  making  her 
election,  the  choice  fell  upon  Edward  Mansell,  greatly  to  the  chagrin 
of  his  rival,  and  to  the  annoyance  of  Mason,  who  would  have  been 
better  pleased  to  have  found  Van   Buren  the  favored  suiter.     How- 


96  AMERICAN    BOOK    OF    BEAU^T. 

ever,  Mansell  was  the  chosen  lover,  and  Mason  could  not  alter  the 
case  by  argument ;  nor  was  he  disposed  to  send  away  his  niece,  who 
was,  in  some  measure,  essential  to  his  domestic  comfort — and,  more- 
over, he  loved  her  as  much  as  he  could  love  anything.  Matters 
went  on  in  this  way  for  some  time  ;  a  great  deal  of  bitterness  and 
rancor  being  displayed  by  Mason  and  Van  Buren  on  the  one  hand  ; 
while  Kate  and  Edward  Mansell  foimd,  in  the  interviews  they  occa- 
sionally enjoyed,  more  than  compensation  for  the  annoyance  to  which 
they  were  necessarily  exposed. 

It  happened,  at  the  time  when  Edward's  engagement  was  within  a 
month  of  its  expiration,  that  Mason  had  received  a  sum  of  money, 
as  agent  for  another  party,  amounting  to  nearly  three  thousand  dollars, 
of  which  the  greater  portion  was  in  gold  coin.  As  the  money  could 
not  conveniently  be  disposed  of  until  the  following  day,  it  was  de- 
posited in  a  tin  box  in  the  iron  safe,  the  key  of  which  was  always 
in  the  custody  of  Mansell.  Soon  after  he  received  the  charge,  Van 
Buren  quitted  the  office  for  a  short  time,  and  in  the  interim  an  appli- 
cation from  a  client  rendered  it  necessary  for  Mansell  to  go  up  to  the 
courthouse.  Having  despatched  his  business  at  the  hall,  he  returned 
with  all  expedition,  and  in  due  time  he  took  the  key  of  the  safe  from 
his  drawer  to  deposite  therein  as  usual  the  valuable  papers  of  the 
office  over  night — when,  to  his  inconceivable  horror,  he  discovered 
that  the  treasure  was  gone  ! 

He  rushed  down  stairs,  and  meeting  Van  Buren,  communicated 
the  unfortunate  circumstance.  He  in  turn  expressed  his  astonish- 
ment in  strong  terms,  and,  indeed,  exhibited  something  like  sympathy 
in  his  brother  clerk's  misfortune.  Every  search  was  made  about  the 
premises,  and  information  given  to  the  nearest  magistrate  ;  but,  as 
Mason  was  from  home,  and  would  not  return  until  the  next  day,  little 
else  could  be  done.  Edward  passed  a  night  of  intense  agony — nor 
were  the  feelings  of  Kate  more  enviable.  Mason  returned  some 
hours  earlier  than  was  expected,  sent  immediately  for  Van  Buren, 
and  was  closeted  with  him  for  a  long  time. 

Mansell,  utterly  incapacitated  by  the  overwhelming  calamity  which 
had  befallen  him,  from  attending  to  his  duties,  was  walking,  ignorant 
of  Mason's  return,  when  Kate  came,  or  rather  flew  toward  him,  and 
exclaimed,  "  Oh,  Edward,  my  uncle  has  applied  for  a  warrant  to  ap- 


CAM  ELI  A    ANEMONEFOLIA 


THE       EVn.        HOLLOW. 


97 


prehend  you ;  and,  innocent  though  I  know  you  to  be,  that  fiend  in 
human  form,  Van  Buren,  has  wound  such  a  web  around  you  that  1 
dread  the  worst.  I  have  not  time  to  explain  ;  fly  instantly,  and  meet 
me,  at  nightfall,  in  the  Evil     Hollow,  when  I  will  tell  you  all." 

Mansell,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  rushed  out  of  the  garden, 
and  through  some  fields  ;  nor  did  he  stop  until  he  found  himself  out 
of  sight  of  the  town,  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  Th«n,  for  the  first 
time,  he  repented  of  having  listened  to  the  well-meant  but  unwise 
counsel  of  his  dear  Kate.  But  the  siep  was  taken,  and  he  could 
not  retrace  it  now.  He  proceeded  until  he  arrived  at  a  thick  grove, 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Evil  Hollow,  where  he  lay  hid -until 
night  closed  upon  him. 

He  then  approached  a  dark  opening  in  which  was  a  deep  hollow, 
which  had  acquired  a  celebrity  from  its  having  been  the  scene  of  a 
murder  some  years  before,  and  hence  was  an  object  of  such  super- 
stitious awe  to  the  farmers  of  the  vicinity,  that  he  was  considered  a 
bold  man  who  would  venture  there  after  nightfall.  This,  doubtless, 
had  influenced  Kate  in  her  choice  of  such  a  place  for  their  meeting, 
inasmuch  as  they  would  be  secure  from  interruption. 

Mansell  returned  and  still  lingered  on  ihe  skirt  of  the  grove,  until 
the  sound  of  a  light  footstep  on  the  gravelled  path  which  led  to  the 
place,  announced  the  approach  of  the  loved  being  whom  he  felt  he 
was  about  to  meet  for  the  last  time.  The  poor  girl  could  not  speak 
a  word  when  they  met,  but,  bowing  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  burst 
into  a  flood  of  passionate  tears.  By  degrees  she  became  more  calm, 
and  then  detailed  to  him  a  conversation  that  she  had  overheard  be- 
tween Van  Buren  and  her  uncle ;  and  gathered  thence  that  the  for- 
mer had  succeeded  in  convincing  Mason  of  Edward's  guilt,  by  an 
artful  combination  of  facts,  which  would  have  made  out  a  prima  facie 
case  against  the  accused — the  most  formidable  one  being  the  finding 
of  a  considerable  sum,  in  specie,  in  Mansell's  trunk.  Knowing  that 
he  could  not  satisfactorily  account  for  the  possession  of  this  money, 
without  the  evidence  of  a  near  relative  who  had  departed  for  Europe 
a  week  before,  and  whose  address  was  unknown,  and  return  uncer- 
tain, Edward,  to  avoid  the  horror  and  disgrace  of  lying  in  the  county 
prison  in  the  intermediate  time,  resolved  on   evading  the  officers  of 


98  AMERICAN  BOOK  OF  BEAUTY. 

justice,  until  he  could  surrender  himself,  with  the  proofs  of  his  inno- 
cence in  his  hands. 

The  moon  had  now  risen  above  the  hill  which  bounded  the  pros- 
pect, and  warned  the  heart-broken  lovers  that  it  was  time  to  separate. 
"  And  now,"  said  he,  "  dearest,  I  leave  you,  with  the  brand  of  '  thief 
upon  my  fair  name,  to  be  hunted  like  a  beast  of  prey,  from  one  hiding- 
place  to  another.  But,  oh,  my  Kate  !  I  bear  with  me  the  blessed  as- 
surance that  there  is  one  being —  and  that  being  the  best-beloved  of 
my  heart — who  knows  me  to  be  innocent;  and  that  thought  shall 
comfort  me." 

"  A  remarkably  pretty  speech,  and  Avell  delivered !"  exclaimed  a 
voice,  which  caused  the  youthful  pair  to  start,  and  turn  their  eyes  in 
the  direction  whence  it  proceeded,  when,  from  behind  a  decayed  and 
solitary  tree  that  grew  in  the  Hollow,  a  tall  figure,  wrapped  in  an 
ample  cloak,  advanced  toward  them.  The  place,  as  we  have  already 
noticed,  had  an  evil  reputation ;  and,  although  Edward  and  his  com- 
panion were,  of  course,  free  from  the  superstitious  fears  which  char- 
acterized the  country  people,  an  undefinable  feeling  stole  over  them, 
as  they  gazed  upon  the  tall  form  before  them. 

Mansell,  however,  soon  recovered  himself,  and  told  the  strangei 
that,  whoever  he  was,  it  ill  became  him  to  overhear  conversation 
which  was  not  intended  for  other  ears  than  their  own. 

"  Nay,"  was  the  rejoinder,  "  be  not  angry  with  me ;  perhaps  you 
may  have  reason  to  rejoice  in  my  presence,  since,  being  in  posses- 
sion of  the  story  of  your  grief,  it  may  be  in  my  power  to  alle\iate  it. 
I  have  assisted  men  in  greater  straits." 

Edward  did  not  like  the  last  sentence,  nor  the  tone  in  which  it  was 
uttered  ;  but  he  said,  "  I  see  not  how  you  can  help  me  ;  you  can  not 
give  me  a  clue  by  which  to  find  the  box." 

"  Yes,  here  is  a  clue .'"  replied  the  other,  as  he  held  forth  about 
three  yards  of  strong  cord,  "  here  is  a  line ;  go  to  the  river  at  a  point 
exactly  opposite  the  old  hollow  oak ;  wade  out  in  a  straight  line  until 
you  find  the  box  ;  attach  one  end  of  the  cord  to  the  box  and  the  other 
to  a  stout  cork — but  remove  it  not  yet." 

Mansell,  whether  he  really  believed  himself  to  be  in  the  presence 
of  the  Evil  One,  or  that  the  word  was  merely  expressive  of  surpri&e 
wo  know  not,  exclaimed,  "  The  Evil  One  !" 


THE       EVIL        HOLLOW.  99 

The  stranger  took  the  compliment,  and  acknowledging  it  with  a 
bow,  said,  "  The  tin  box  which  you  have  been  accused  of  stealing, 
is  at  the  bottom  of  the  river,  and  you  will  find  that  I  have  said  no 
more  than  the  truth." 

Mansell  hesitated  no  longer,  but  accompanied  the  stranger  to  the 
spot,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  the  box,  sealed  as  when  he  last  saw  it, 
was  again  in  his  possession.  He  looked  from  the  treasure  to  the 
stranger,  and  at  last  said,  "  I  owe  you  more  than  life  ;  for,  in  regain- 
ing this,  I  shall  recover  my  good  name,  which  has  been  foully  tra- 
duced." 

He  was  proceeding  toward  the  shore,  when  the  other  cried : 

*'  Stop,  young  gentleman  !  not  quite  so  fast ;  just  fasten  your  cord 
to  it,  and  replace  it  where  you  found  it,  if  you  please."  Edward 
stared,  but  the  stranger  continued  :  "  Were  you  to  take  that  box  back 
to  your  employer,  think  you  that  you  would  produce  any  other  con- 
viction on  him  than  that,  finding  your  delinquency  discovered,  you 
wished  to  secure  impunity,  by  restoring  the  property  ?  We  must 
not  only  restore  the  treasure,  but  convict  the  thief.  Hush  !  I  hear  a 
footfall."  As  he  spoke,  he  took  the  box  from  Edward,  who  now  saw 
his  meaning,  fastened  the  cord  to  it,  and  it  was  again  lowered  to  the 
bottom  of  the  river,  and  the  cork  on  the  other  end  of  the  cord  was 
swinging  down  with  the  tide.  "  Now,  follow  me  in  silence,"  whis- 
pered the  stranger,  and  the  three  retired  and  hid  themselves  behind 
the  huge  trunk  of  the  tree,  whence,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  they 
beheld  a  figure  approach  the  water,  looking  cautiously  around  him. 

"  That  is  the  thief,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  low  voice,  in  Edward's 
ear.  "  I  saw  him,  last  night,  throw  something  into  the  river,  and, 
when  he  was  gone,  I  took  the  liberty  of  raising  it  up  ;  when,  expect- 
ing that  he  would  return  and  remove  his  booty,  I  replaced  it,  and  had 
been  unsuccessfully  watching  the  place  just  before  I  met  you  in  the 
Hollow." 

By  this  time  the  man  had  reached  the  river's  brink,  and,  after 
groping  for  some  time  through  the  water,  he  found  the  box,  but 
started  back  in  astonishment  on  seeing  a  long  cord  attached  to  it.  His 
back  was  turned  from  the  witnesses  of  the  transaction,  so  that  Ed- 
ward and  the  stranger  had  got  him  securely  by  the  collar  before  he 
could  make  any  attempt  to  escape.      The  surprise  of  Mansell  and 


100  AMERICAN    BOOK    OF    BEAUTY. 

Kate  may  be  more  easily  conceived  than  painted,  when,  as  the  moon- 
beam  fell  on  the  face  of  the  culprit,  they  recognised  the  features  of 
Van  Buren,  his  fellow-clerk. 

Our  limits  will  not  allow  of  our  saying  more  than  that  Mansell's 
character  was  cleared  ;  while  Van  Buren,  whom  Mason,  for  reasons 
confined  to  his  own  bosom,  refrained  from  prosecuting,  quitted  the 
town  in  merited  disgrace.  The  stranger  proved  to  be  a  gentleman 
of  large  landed  property  in  the  neighborhood,  which  he  had  now 
visited  for  the  first  time  in  many  years,  and,  having  been  interested 
in  the  young  pair  whom  he  had  so  opportunely  delivered  from  trib- 
ulation, he  subsequently  appointed  Mansell  his  man  of  business,  and 
thus  laid  the  foundation  of  his  prosperity.  It  is  almost  needless  to 
add,  that  Kate,  who  had  so  long  shared  his  heart,  became  his  wife, 
and  shared  his  good  fortune. 


ENVY   AND   CANDOR. 

A  DIALOOUB    BiSTWBSN   TWO   TOtTNG    lADIBS. 

Envy.  What  do  you  think  of  this  Miss  H.  that  is  come  among  us  ? 

Candor.  I  think  her  a  very  beautiful,  elegant,  and  accomplished 
young  woman. 

Envy.  That  I  am  convinced  is  precisely  her  own  opinion. 

Candor.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  how  you  come  to  be  convinced, 
from  her  manner  or  conversation,  that  she  thinks  so  highly  of  herself. 

Envy.  0,  it  is  quite  evident  the  men  have  turned  the  girl's  head  ; 
they  tell  every  woman,  as  you  know  very  well,  my  dear,  that  she  is 
elegant,  beautiful,  and  accomplished. 

Candor.  It  is  not  then  surprising  that  they  should  hold  the  same 
language  to  Miss  H.,  whom  they  must  think  so  in  the  highest  degree. 
Don't  you  remember  how  all  the  gentlemen  were  in  her  praise  ? 

Envy.  Well,  for  my  part,  I  do  not  think  the  men  half  so  good 
judges  of  female  beauty  as  the  women.  Miss  H.  has  too  great  a 
quantity  of  hair,  considering  how  small  her  head  i». 


ENVY    AND    CANDOR.  101 

Candor.  What  fault  do  you  find  with  her  person  ? 

Envy.  She  is  too  tall. 

Candor.  She  is  not  above  an  inch  taller  than  yourself. 

Envy.  I  do  not  pretend  to  say  she  is  a  great  deal  too  tall. 

Candor.  Can  you  pretend  to  say  she  is  too  short  ? 

Envy.  She  is  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other ;  one  does  not  know 
vvhat  to  make  of  her. 

Candor.  That  settles  the  point  of  her  height ;  let  us  now  proceed 
to  her  face  Do  you  not  find  something  very  engaging  in  her  counte- 
nance ? 

Envy.  Engaging,  do  you  call  it  ? 

Candor.  Yes,  I  call  it  engaging.     What  do  you  call  it  ? 

Envy.  She  is  apt,  indeed,  to  smile  ;  but  that  is  to  show  her  teeth. 

Candor.  She  would  not  smile  for  that  purpose,  however,  unless 
she  had  good  fine  teeth  ;  and  they  are  certainly  the  finest  I  ever  saw. 

Envy.  What  signifies  teeth  ? 

Candor.  Well,  let  us  come  to  her  eyes.  What  do  you  think  of 
them? 

Envy.  They  are  not  black. 

Candor.  No  ;  but  they  are  the  sweetest  blue  in  nature. 

Envy.  Blue  eyes  have  been  long  out  of  fashion  ;  black  are  now  all 
the  mode. 

Candor.  Blue  ones  are  coming  round  again;  for  those  of  Miss  H. 
are  much  admired. 

Envy.  Her  fortune  would  procure  her  admirers  among  the  men, 
although  she  had  no  eyes  at  all. 

Candor.  That  stroke  lights  entirely  on  the  men,  and  misses  the 
person  against  whom  it  was  aimed. 

Envy.  Aimed  \  1  have  no  ill-will  against  Miss  H. 

Candor.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 

Envy.     No  !  not  I  ;  why  should  I  ? 

Candor.  I  am  sure  I  can  not  tell. 

Envy.  She  never  did  me  any  injury. 

Candor.  I  was  afraid  she  had. 

Envy.  No,  not  in  the  least,  that  I  know  of.  I  dare  say  she  is  a 
good  enough  sort  of  a  girl ;  but  as  for  beauty,  her  pretensions  to  that 
are  very  moderate  indeed. 


102  ANNIE    WILBUR. 

Original. 

ANNIE    WILBUR. 

BY      MISS      LOUISA      DOUGLASS. 

It  was  Christmas  eve,  that  season  so  full  of  festivity,  bat 
alas  !  in  general  not  sufficiently  fraught  with  a  sense  of 
thankfulness  for  the  many  religious  privileges  it  confers 
upon  us. 

Busy  crowds  were  hurrying  to  and  fro,  most  of  them  in- 
tent upon  preparations  for  the  morrow. 

The  shops  in  Broadway,  presented  their  gayest  and  most 
attractive  appearance,  and  many  a  ragged  urchin  gazed 
wistfully  at  the  toys,  which  might  never  be  his. 

But  leaving  these  bright  and  dazzling  scenes  we  will  turn 
our  steps  towards  one  of  those  obscure  streets  which  inter- 
sect the  Bowery. 

In  an  upper  room  of  a  wretched  building,  the  very  walls 
of  which  seemed  tottering  under  their  own  weight,  were  two 
persons,  a  young  girl,  and  a  boy,  whose  delicacy  of  appear- 
ance was  greatly  at  variance  with  the  coarse  and  scanty, 
though  perfectly  neat  furniture  about  them. 

Annie  Wilbur  was  twenty  three,  but  her  petit,  though 
beautifully  proportioned  form,  delicate  complexion,  and 
bright  golden  hair,  made  her  appear  scarcely  more  than 
eighteen.  Her  companion  was  her  brother,  a  boy  about 
thirteen  years  of  age.  The  contour  of  his  face  was  perfect. 
His  complexion  was  equally  delicate  as  his  sisters,  with  dark 
eyes  and  hair  of  the  exquisite  chestnut  hue,  so  rarely  seen, 
lay  clustering  in  rich  curls  on  his  broad  white  forehead. 

On  a  more  close  observation,  you  might  perceive  that  he 
was  slightly  deformed,  and  this  it  was,  added  to  much  early 
suffering,  that  cast  that  shade  of  sad  thoughtfulness  over  his 
beautiful  countenance. 

Annie  and  Charles  Wilbur,  were  the  children  of  an  English 


ANNIE    WILBUIl.  103 

gentleman,  a  physician  of  considerable  talent  and  ability, 
who  from  various  circumstances  had  been  unable  to  realize 
much  from  his  profession,  until  a  trifling  service  afforded  to 
Sir  Morely  Morton  on  the  hunting  ground  near  that  noble- 
man's estate,  was  the  means  of  bringing  him  into  notice  and 
increasing  his  practice  considerably. 

He  was  frequently  invited  to  Morely  House,  and  intro- 
duced to  some  of  the  most  fashionable  and  dissipated  men 
of  the  day,  and  here  it  was  he  first  acquired  that  odious 
habit  of  gambling,  so  ruinous  in  its  effects  to  himself  and 
family.  At  first  he  played  only  to  make  up  a  deficiency  in 
the  game,  but  by  degrees  from  inclination,  until  his  passion 
for  gaming  grew  so  strong,  that  he  staked  everything  he 
possessed,  and  all  was  lost.  His  plate,  his  furniture,  and 
even  his  valuable  library,  all,  all  were  gone,  to  satisfy  the 
cravings  of  a  passion  as  destructive  as  it  is  sinful. 

One  night  after  having  lost  everything,  he  fancied  he  saw 
his  adversary  play  unfairly,  he  accused  him  of  it;  a  chal- 
lenge was  given  and  accepted,  and  the  next  morning  Dr. 
Wilbur  was  brought  home  a  mangled  and  disfigured  corpse ; 
his  antagonist's  ball  having  carried  away  the  lower  part  of 
his  jaw,  and  otherwise  injuring  him  mortally. 

Mrs.  Wilbur  who  had  been  in  delicate  health  for  many 
years,  was-  unable  to  survive  the  shock,  and  three  days  after 
her  husband  was  buried,  she  died  also. 

Ere  Annie  had  recovered  from  the  distress  with  which 
this  double  affliction  o'erwhelmed  her,  she  wai?  ordered  by 
her  father's  creditors  to  leave  the  house  that  had  been  her 
home  for  so  many  years.  Rude  hands  were  laid  upon  things 
rendered  sacred  by  the  memory  of  the  "  lost  and  loved," 
and  as  Annie  took  a  last  look  of  her  mother's  room,  the 
window  where  she  was  wont  to  sit,  and  many  other  things 
which  were  inseperably  connected  with  her  memory,  she 
burst  into  tears  and  felt  as  if  she  had  indeed  parted  with  her 
best  friend.  As  she  was  leaving  the  I'oom,  she  saw  her 
mother's  bible  lying  open  under  the  table,  she  caught  it  up 
and  kissed  it,  and  as  she  was  about  closing  it,  her  eye  fell 


104  ANNIE    WILBUK. 

upon  these  words  of  divine  consolation — "  Trust  in  me  ana 
I  will  never  leave  thee,  nor  forsake  thee."  *'  I  will  trust  in 
thee,  O  God,"  she  exclaimed,  and  kneeling  down  she  prayed 
long  and  fervently,  and  arose  refreshed  and  comforted  to 
seek  her  little  brother.  She  found  him  surrounded  by  the 
servants  who  with  tearful  eyes  were  bidding  him  farewell. 

Houseless  and  homeless,  where  were  they  to  go  ? 

During  their  parents  lifetime  they  had  lived  estranged 
from  their  nearest  relatives  on  account  of  some  family  dis- 
agreement, and  they  had  not  the  slightest  knowledge  of  any 
of  their  relations,  with  the  exception  of  a  distant  relative  of 
their  mother  in  Ireland. 

After  all  the  creditor's  had  been  satisfied,  there  remained 
nothing  for^the  orphans  but  their  mothers  jewels,  so  that 
Annie  determined  for  the  present  to  accept  the  offer  of  an 
old  man,  who  had  lived  with  her  father  in  the  capacity  of  a 
butler,  and  who,  unlike  many  others  failed  not  in  love  and 
respect  to  the  children  of  his  former  master.  Old  William 
now  lived  on  a  small  farm,  the  fruits  of  his  industry  and  fru- 
gality in  his  younger  days,  and  to  this  farm  Annie  and  her 
brother  now  accompanied  him. 

After  remaining  there  several  months,  without  being  able 
to  obtain  employment  suited  to  her  education  and  former 
position  in  society,  Annie  determined  upon  selling  her 
mother's  jewels  with  the  exception  of  a  diamond  ring, 
which  when  living  her  mother  had  always  worn,  and  with 
the  proceeds  to  go  to  America,  where  she  hoped  to  be  more 
successful,  at  least,  if  she  was  obliged  to  condescend,  it 
would  be  among  strangers. 

She  accordingly  informed  old  William  of  her  intentions, 
who  anxiously  inquired  in  what  he  had  offended  her. 

No  one  has  offended  me,  kind  William  ;  my  only  reason 
for  leaving  you  is,  that  with  my  health  and  faculties  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  a  burden  to  any  one,  replied  Annie. 

At  length  the  old  man  consented  to  her  going,  and 
although  very  aged,  insisted  upon  going  with  her  and  her 
brother  to  the  port  from  which  they  were  to  sail. 


ANNIE    WILBUR.  105 

Among  the  vessels  that  were  about  to  sail,  there  was  one» 
the  captain  of  which  had  been  slightly  acquainted  with  Dr. 
Wilbur,  and  who,  upon  hearing  the  story  of  their  misfor- 
tunes from  old  William,  insisted  upon  Annie's  acceptance  of 
a  free  passage  for  herself  and  brother. 

On  their  arrival  in  America,  Captain  Harden,  with  the 
true  generosity  of  a  sailor,  engaged  board  for  Annie  and 
Charles,  and  paid  for  it  for  a  short  time  in  advance.  She 
succeeded  in  getting  a  small  supply  of  needlework,  inade- 
quate however  to  their  wants,  simple  as  they  were. 

Just  as  the  time  for  which  their  board  was  paid  had  ex- 
pired, Annie  received  the  mournful  intelligence  that  Captain 
Harden's  vessel  on  the  return  voyage  was  wrecked  and  but 
one  lived  to  tell  the  sad  tale. 

Annie  now  felt  it  her  duty  to  reduce  her  expenses,  and 
accordingly  removed  to  the  humble  apartments  where  we 
first  introduced  her  to  the  reader. 

"  Sister,  dear  Annie,  do  not  exert  yourself  to  finish  that 
work,"  said  Charles,  as  Annie  with  pale  cheek  and  sunken 
eye  bent  still  more  closely  over  the  work  on  which  she  was 
engaged. 

"  To-morrow  is  Christmas,  as  you  know  Charlie,  and  I 
hoped  I  should  have  finished  it  in  time  to  buy  you  a  Christ- 
mas box,  inferior  of  course  to  those  you  received  when  our 
parents  were  alive,  but  presented  in  as  true  and  affectionate 
a  spirit  I  hope,"  replied  Annie.  "  But  there,  I've  finished  it, 
and  now  I  will  go,  the  clock  is  just  striking  eight,  and  so 
saying,  Annie  put  on  her  cloak  and  hat,  and  was  about 
leaving  the  room  when  Charles  exclaimed,  "  I  wish  I  could 
go  with  you  Annie,  at  the  same  time  glancing  mournfully  at 
his  shrunken  limbs,  and  wiping  away  the  tear  that  was  ready 
to  start  down  his  cheek. 
^Bf  "  O  'tis  not  very  far,  I  can  very  well  go  alone,"  said  his 
^Rster,  as  with  a  kind  kiss,  and  a  sweet  smile  she  bade  him 
good  night. 

On  her  arrival  at  the  store  with  her  work,  the  proprietor 
was  not  in,  and  the  clerk  informed  Annie  he  would  not  be 


106  ANNIE    WILBUR. 

there  again  that  night,  and  he  could  not  pay  her  for  the 
work. 

The  next  day  would  be  Christmas,  and  consequently  the 
store  would  be  closed.  How  were  they  to  exist  ?  for  she 
had  given  Charles  the  last  morsel  in  the  house  at  noon,  and 
as  for  herself  she  had  not  tasted  food  since  morning. 

After  a  severe  struggle  with  her  feelings,  she  concluded 
upon  selling  her  mother's  ring,  which  since  her  arrival  in 
America  she  had  constantly  worn  about  her  neck.  Painful 
as  it  was,  she  must  part  with  it  to  sustain  life,  and  hastily 
untying  the  ribbon  which  held  it,  she  proceeded  to  a  jewellers 
near  by. 

When  she  arrived  there  her  courage  failed,  and  she  was 
several  times  about  to  go  home  without  selling  it,  but  the 
image  of  her  patient  suffering  little  brother  arose  before  her, 
and  she  made  one  more  effort  and  went  in.  When  she  pre- 
sented the  ring,  the  man  glanced  at  her  mean  apparel  which 
was  in  strong  contrast  to  the  size  and  brilliancy  of  the  gem 
which  she  offered  to  sell,  and  in  a  harsh  unfeeling  voice 
demanded  where  she  obtained  it. 

Her  voice  faltered  and  her  heart  seemed  almost  bursting 
as  she  replied  "  it  was  my  mothers." 

Her  emotion  was  considered  by  the  jeweller  as  a  con- 
vincing proof  of  her  guilt.  He  accused  her  of  having  stolen 
it,  and  threatened  her  with  the  police. 

In  the  midst  of  her  distress  a  gentleman  and  lady  came 
into  the  store  to  make  some  purchases,  and  seeing  her  tears 
kindly  inquired  their  cause. 

Being  thus  encouraged,  Annie  told  them  her  whole  story 
and  referred  them  to  the  lady  with  whom  she  formerly 
boarded  for  the  truth  of  her  assertion.  Mr.  Austen  and  his 
wife,  being  greatly  interested  by  her  modest  and  lady-like 
deportment,  went  with  the  jeweller  to  Mrs.  Farlan,  who 
corroborated  the  truth  of  her  statement  in  every  par- 
ticular. 

The  jeweller  being  now  convinced  of  her  innocence 
apologized  to  her,  and  would  willingly  have  bought  the  ring 


ANNIE    WILBUR.  107 

which  was  very  valuable,  even  more  than  Annie  was  aware 
of,  but  Mr.  Austen  persuaded  her  to  keep  it,  and  accept 
from  him  as  a  loan,  if  not  as  a  gift  a  sum  of  money  sufficient 
for  their  more  pressing  and  immediate  wants. 

With  a  heart  overflowing  with  gratitude  Annie  hastened 
home  to  her  brother  who  she  well  knew  would  be  anxiously 
expecting  her.  On  her  arrival  she  found  him  in  a  state 
almost  of  distraction,  but  his  fears  were  soon  allayed  on 
finding  her  safe  and  unharmed. 

In  a  few  days  after  these  occurrences,  Mrs.  Austen  sent 
for  Annie,  and  communicated  the  joyful  intelligence  that  she 
had  succeeded  in  obtaining  for  her  the  situation  of  teacher 
in  a  village  school  in  the  vicinity  of  New  York,  through  the 
influence  of  the  parish  clergyman,  who  had  been  a  college 
companion  of  Mr.  Austen.  Annie's  joy  may  be  easily 
imagined,  though  as  she  witnessed  the  flushed  cheek  and 
unnaturally  bright  eye  of  her  unfortunate  little  brother,  her 
happiness  was  greatly  lessened  by  the  fear  that  he  would 
not  long  enjoy  this  happy  change  in  their  circumstances. 

In  a  few  days  they  removed  to  their  new  home,  and  the 
fresh  air  and  quiet  scenery  seemed  to  have  so  beneficial  an 
effect  upon  Charlie's  health,  that  Annie  began  to  think  her 
fears  had  been  groundless.  But  alas  !  it  was  only  for  a 
time  ;  his  deformity  which  had  been  caused  by  a  fall  when 
an  infant,  induced  a  debility  which  ended  his  life  a  short  time 
after  they  came  to  live  at  B . 

Annie's  genuine  piety  and  Christian  deportment,  added  to 
her  personal  attractions,  excited  the  admiration  of  the  parish 
clergyman  who  was  a  widower,  and  after  a  suitable  time 
had  elapsed  from  the  death  of  her  brother,  Annie  became 
his  wife  ;  and  many  a  sick  couch  and  dying  bed  was  soothed 
by  the  kind  attentions  of  the  Pastor's  Lady. 


There  is  no  readier  way  for  a  man  to  bring  his  own 
worth  into  question,  than  by  endeavoring  to  detract  from 
the  worth  of  other  men. 


E  U  L  O  G  I  U  M  .  • 
WASHINGTON, 

THE  TEFENDER  OF  HIS  COUNTRY,  THE  FOUNDER  OF   LIBERTY, 

THE  FRIEND  OF  MAN, 

HISTORY  AND    TRADITION  ARE  EXPLORED  IN  VAIN 

FOR  A  PARALLEL  TO  HIS  CHARACTER. 

IN    THE    ANNALS    OF    MODERN    GREATNESS, 

HE  STAJVDS  ALONE, 

AND    THE    NOBLEST    NAMES    OF    ANTIQUITY 

LOSE    THEIR    LUSTRE    IN    HIS    PRESENCE. 

BORN  THE  BENEFACTOR  OF  MANKIND, 

HE  UNITED  ALL  THE  QUALITIES  NECESSARY 

TO  AN  ILLUSTRIOUS  CAREER. 

NATURE  MADE  HIM  GREAT ; 

HE  MADE  HIMSELF  VIRTUOUS. 

CALLED    BY    HIS   COUNTRY    TO    THE    DEFENCE    OF    HER    LIBERTIES, 

HE  TRIUMPHANTLY  VINDICATED  THE  RIGHTS  OF   HUMANITY, 

AND    ON    THE    PILLARS   OF    NATIONAL    INDEPENDENCE 

LAID  THE    FOUNDATIONS  OF  A  GREAT  REPUBLIC. 

TWICE     INVESTED     WITH     SUPREME     MAGISTRACY, 

BY  THE  UNANIMOUS  VOICE  OF  A  FREE  PEOPLE, 

HE  SURPASSED  IN  THE  CABINET 

THE   GLORIES   OF   THE   FIELD, 

AND    VOLUNTARILY    RESIGNING    THE    SCEPTRE    AND    THE    SWORD, 

RETIRED    TO    THE    SHADES    OF   PRIVATE    LIFE. 

A  SPECTACLE  SO  NEW  AND  SO  SUBLIME 

WAS  CONTEMPLATED  WITH  THE  PROFOUNDEST  ADMIRATION  J 

AND  THE  NAME  OF 

WASHINGTON, 

ADDING  NEW  LUSTRE  TO  HUMANITY, 

RESOUNDED  TO  THE  REMOTEST  REGIONS  OF  THE  EARTH, 

MAGNANIMOUS  IN  YOUTH, 

GLORIOUS    THROUGH     LIFE, 

GREAT  IN  DEATH, 

HIS    HIGHEST    AMBITION    THE    HAPPINESS    OF    MANKIND, 

HIS  NOBLEST  VICTORY    THE  CONQUEST  OF  HIMSELF, 

BEQUEATHING  TO  POSTERITY  THE  INHERITANCE  OF  HIS  FAME, 

AND  BUILDING  HIS   MONUMENT    IN    THE  HEARTS  OF  HIS  COUNTRYMEN 

HE  LIVED  THE  ORNAMENT  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY, 

AND  DIED  REGRETTED  BY  A  MOURNING  WORLD. 

*  The  traveller  who  visits  the  venerable  mansion  of  the  Father  of  his  country,  will  find  ther« 
a  likeness  of  Washington,  on  the  reverse  of  which  are  the  graphic  lines  given  above — lines  so 
simple  and  yet  so  classical,  so  laconic,  and  yet  so  comprehensive,  so  replete  with  lofty  eulogy, 
without  any  exaggeration,  that  it  may  be  doubted  whether  a  more  faultless  portrait  could  bo 
made  of  this  truly  great  man. 

In  the  dift'erent  volumes  of  the  Family  Circle  and  Parlor  Annual,  we  have  furnished  steel 
engravings  of  Washington's  Residence  and  Tomb,  and  also  of  Washington  in  the  act  of  private 
devotion,  and  written  descriptions  of  his  youthful  and  manly  character,  and  now  we  record 
the  most  noble  tribute  to  his  memory  in  Capitals  :  a  eulogy  which  should  be  printed  in  gold, 
embroidered  on  satin,  embossed  in  silver,  and  hung  up  in  every  habitation  in  the  land,  to  pre 
serve  the  memory  of  this  great  and  good  man,  fresh  and  green  in  the  view  of  everj-  American. 


AUTUMN.  109 

AUTUMN. 

EDITORIAL. 

Each  season  of  the  revolving  year,  while  it  unfolds  sights 
and  scenes  peculiar  to  itself,  serves  also  to  awaken  corres- 
pondent emotions  in  the  mind,  which  every  month  contri- 
butes to  diversify  and  deepen.  The  unrivalled  beauties  of 
the  Spring,  the  full  glories  of  the  Summer,  the  fading  yet 
lovely  scenes  of  Autumn,  and  the  stern  aspect  of  Winter, 
excite,  each  in  their  turn,  pure  and  unalloyed  pleasure, 
rising  sometimes  to  rapture  and  extacy,  and  feelings  of 
solemnity  and  dejection.  Summer  retires  from  us  in  the 
month  of  September.  But  the  gloom  of  the  falling  year  is 
enhvened  by  those  intervening  weeks  and  days,  which  adorn 
the  Earth  with  a  robe  of  more  variegated  beauty,  and  gra- 
dually prepares  us  for  the  stern  aspect  and  utter  desolation 
of  Winter.  The  changes  which  the  garden,  the  field  and 
foj^est  undergo  to 

"  Cheer  the  sober  landscape  in  decay, 

a  thousand  tints 

Which  Flora,  dress'd  in  all  her  pride  of  bloom, 
Could  scarcely  equal,  decorate  the  groves." 

What  a  magnificent  landscape  is  now  presented  to  view  ! 
Thompson  has  described  it  with  matchless  skill,  and  yet  how 
does  he  sink  below  the  reality.  Let  any  indulge  himself  in 
a  walk  by  the  rivers  bank  or  on  the  hill  side,  and  look  upon 
the  fading,  many-colored  landscape,  shade  deepening  over 
shade,  and  he  will  see  beauties  which  even  the  pen  of  a 
Thompson  could  not  describe.  On  the  retina  or  visual  can- 
vass, nature  paints  more  perfectly  than  art.  For  want  of 
close  attention  and  careful  observation,  we  often  pass  over 
many  of  the  beauties  of  nature  which  would  otherwise  fill 
us  with  delight. 

The  fall  of  the  leaf  is  so  striking,  that  this  declining  season 
of  the  year,  is,  in  common   language  called  Fall.     The 


110  AUTUMN. 

emotions,  which  this  vicissitude  of  nature  is  calculated  to 
inspire,  are  more  deep  and  lasting  from  the  fact  that  man, 
with  all  his  pride  and  towering  hopes,  is  subject  to  the 
same  law  of  decay  and  dissolution. 

What  pomp,  what  vast  variety  of  hues 

The  woodland  scenes  adorn.     The  purple  deep, 

Orange  and  Opse,  and  Carnation  bright, 

To  the  rapt  eye  their  rich  profusion  spread. 

Such  is  the  common  lot.     The  North  winds  soon 

Their  Sylvan  spoils  will  strow  along  the  vales. 

The  leaf  incessant  flutters  to  the  ground 

And,  fluttering,  startles  such,  who  musing  stray 

Lonely  and  devious  through  the  solemn  shades, 

Yet  have  these  leafy  rains  charms  for  me. 

There  is  something  extremely  melancholy  in  that  gradual 
process  by  which  trees  are  stripped  of  all  their  beauty,  and 
left  so  many  monuments  of  decay  and  desolation.  We 
often  see  the  beauties  of  the  waning  year  vanish  in  October  : 
sometimes  we  see  a  fine  Autumnal  effect  in  the  beginning  of 
November,  even  later  we  trace  the  beauties  of  the  declining 
year,  and 

"  Catch  the  last  smDe 
Of  Autumn  beaming  o'er  the  yellow  woods." 

Even  when  the  beauty  of  the  landscape  is  gone,  the 
charms  of  Autumn  may  retain.  Before  the  rigors  of  Winter 
are  felt,  there  are  often  days  of  such  benign  softness  that 
every  one  must  feel  their  effect.  The  Poet  thus  describes 
a  day  of  this  kind. 

"  The  morning  shines 
Serene  in  all  its  dewy  beauties  bright, 
Unfolding  fair  the  last  Autumnal  day. 
O'er  all  the  soul  its  sacred  influence  breathes, 
Inflames  imagination,  through  the  breast 
Infuses  every  tenderness  and  far 
Beyond  dim  Earth  exalts  the  swelling  thought." 

It  is  commonly  supposed  that  the  Sun-sets  of  Autumn  are 
richer  than  at  any  other  season. 


11: 


SCRIPTURE   NATURAL   HISTORY. 

SYRIAN  OX. 
"  The  ox  knoweth  his  owner,  and  the  ass  his  master's 
crib."  Why  is  the  ox  called  by  a  name  which  signifies  to 
search  or  seek  ?  This  question  will  be  answered  by  Isodorus, 
as  quoted  by  the  learned  Bochart.  He  says,  "  The  love  of 
these  animals,  for  their  companions  is  very  remarkable,  for 
those  that  have  been  yoke-fellows  at  the  plough  together, 
SEARCH  AFTER  EACH  OTHER,  hencc  the  uamc  BACRE,  to  scarch, 
and  by  frequent  lowing  testify  their  affections."  We  con- 
sider the  ox  in  our  country  as  the  emasculated  male  of  horned 
cattle.  As  far  as  I  can  learn,  the  bos-bubulus,  or  buffalo, 
must  be  the  Syrian  ox.  In  general  appearance,  it  very 
much  resembles  the  common  ox.  This  animal  has  great 
indications  of  strength  in  the  thickness  of  its  trunk,  the 
largeness  of  its  limbs,  and  the  prominence  of  its  muscles. 
Two  domestic  buffalos  are  able  to  draw  as  much  as  four 
strong  horses.  The  buffalo  is  originally  a  native  of  the 
warmer  parts  of  Africa  and  India,  while  in  Europe  it  is  only 
one  of  its  naturalized  quadrupeds.  As  early  as  the  seventh 
century,  it  was  introduced  into  Italy. 


Original. 
BRISTOL.      CM. 


T.  Hastings. 


CnORAL 


S=>-EFE^: 


O       what 


-jfcr-'rhz-rnz-'i r— •:i\_ 


ing    words      of 


grace     Are 


-I qI u 


2.  Come    then,    with      all      your      wants    and     wounds,  Your 


:p: 


:Pep_=3;e3. 


3.    This    spring    with      liv    -    ing        wa  -   ter        flows.     And 


Suit  -  ( 


in       the       gos  -  pel      found ! 

I         KJ        '  ' 


Suit  -  ed       to       eve  -   ry 


-i- 


-©o-l 


eve  -  ry       bur  -  den    bring ; 


Si^Ei^EP; 


3 


— o- 


i 


:?5r-^r-_r— :i 

Here   love,     e    -    ter  -  nal 


?^^^ 


liv  -    ing     joy       im  -  ports ;  Come,  thirs  -  ty      eouls,    your 


^^^^^mmi 


-   Der's      case.    Who    knows  the 


ful      sound. 


Or 


lo: 


T" 


J" 


—'-cizzz^rzy^l 


a: 


love 


bounds,    A        deep      ce    -     !es    -    tial    spring. 


g 


E^^^^^E^ 


wants     dis  •  close,    And      drink    with     thank  -  ful      hearts. 


THE   MOTHER'S    TREASURE. 


EDITORIAL. 


With   a    Steel   Engraving. 


It  is  the  misfortune  of  some  that  they  are  born  heirs  to 
great  wealth.  It  is  their  misfortune,  not  their  fault.  It 
is  the  lot  assigned  them  in  Providence,  in  the  determination 
if  which  they  had  no  choice  nor  agency,  and  hence  they 
.re  not  accountable  for  the  allotment,  but  only  for  the  man- 
ler  in  which  they  conduct  under  it.  It  is  the  misfortune  of 
oome  to  be  born  rich,  because  thereby  they  are  placed  in  a 
position  extremely  adverse  to  the  production  and  growth  of 
virtuous  sentiments  and  habits,  and  exposed  to  temptations 
to  which,  if  they  do  not  readily  yield,  they  offer  but  a  feeble 
and  ineffectual  resistance.  The  rich  are  expected  to  move 
in  what  are  called  the  first  circles,  to  conform  to  the  laws 
and  customs  of  high  life,  to  indulge  in  all  the  luxuries  of  the 
table,  of  dress,  furniture  and  equipage,  in  a  word,  to  live  in 
a  kind  of  state,  and  put  on  certain  ail's  to  distinguish  them 
from  all  others.  Wealth  builds  up  a  wall  of  separation 
around  those  who  are  born  to  that  estate,  so  that  they  are  a 
community  by  themselves ;  they  affect  to  have  little  in  com- 
mon with  those  without  their  pale,  as  though  they  belonged 
to  another  race,  or  were  humanity  of  a  different  sort.  Few, 
indeed  that  are  brought  up  in  the  midst  o(  wealth  and  with 
the  notions  which  \yealth  usually  inspires,  have  strength  of 
mind  sufficient  to  overcome  the  almost  omnipotent  influence 
of  custom  and  caste.  The  young  heiress,  on  whose  mind 
no  conservative  influence  is  brought  to  bear,  is  indulged  and 
humored  in  every  thing,  hears  litttle  but  the  voice  of  fiattery, 

VOL.    VI.    NO.    4. 


118  THE    mother's    treasure. 

is  commonly  dressed  like  a  doll  kept  for  show,  and  sees 
nought  but  what  ministers  to  the  love  of  display,  and  the 
fostering  of  pride  and  vanity.  The  discipline  of  the  mind, 
the  acquisition  of  useful  knowledge,  and  the  implantation  of 
the  seeds  of  virtue,  in  a  word  a  preparation  for  the  sober 
duties  of  life  and  the  solemn  realities  of  eternity,  are  not 
among  the  objects  or  at  least  the  prominent  objects  contem- 
plated and  sought  in  the  education  of  the  young  heiress,  but 
mainly  the  attainment  of  superficial  and  showy  accomplish- 
ments and  a  preparaticm  to  figure  in  the  circles  of  gaiety 
and  fashion.  Under  such  influences,  we  can  easily  see  how 
the  character  would  be  moulded,  and  what  direction  would 
be  given  to  the  thoughts  and  movements  of  the  mind. 

We  are  happy  to  know  that  there  are  found  in  the  circles 
of  the  rich,  many  honorable  exceptions  to  these  remarks. 
The  Apostle,  in  Acts,  ranks  some  honorable  woman  among 
the  humble  followers  of  Christ.  The  piety  of  Lady  Hunt- 
ington gave  her  a  name  and  influence  among  the  proud  aris- 
tocracy of  England  which  neither  wealth  nor  beauty  could 
confer.  It  gives  us  much  pleasure  to  state,  that  a  daughter 
of  the  richest  man  in  America,  was  a  lady  of  Dorcas  like 
spirit,  delighting  to  do  good  and  to  scatter  blessings  in  her  path. 
Mrs.  Hinton,  the  beautiful  female  represented  in  the  engra- 
ving of  this  number,  is  a  conspicuous  example  of  genuine 
piety  and  high  mental  endowments,  united  to  great  wealth 
and  beauty.  Humanity  rarely  furnishes  a  nobler  specimen 
of  womanhood.  She  was  descended  from  an  ancient  and 
honorable  family,  and  was  a  rich  heiress.  Her  mother,  Mrs. 
Wilmot,  belonged  to  the  old  school  of  stern  English  mati'ons, 
or,  to  speak  more  intelligibly,  belonged  to  that  class  of 
females  of  the  Martha  Washington  stamp.  Wealth  was  not 
used  by  her  as  the  means  of  gratifying  the  pride  of  corrupt 
nature,  and  ministering  to  the  unworthy  purposes  of  ostenta- 
tious display,  but  as  means  ^o  higher  and  nobler  ends,  such 
as  are  worthy  the  pursuit  of  rational  and  immortal  beings. 

The  early  training  of  her  daughter  Clara,  was  not  com- 
mitted to  nurses,  and  French  and  Italian  masters,  but,  from 


THE  MOTHERS  TREASURE.  119 

the  earliest  dawn  of  reason  she  was  her  sole  instructor  and 
guide.  She  early  taught  her  the  fear  of  God,  and  led  her  in 
the  ways  of  wisdom.  Clara,  was  a  beautiful  child  ;  but  she 
was  taught  to  consider  beauty,  without  virtue,  but  a  false, 
deceitful  light ;  and  hence,  instead  of  being  inflated  with 
vanity,  she  was  led  the  more  to  prize  its  noble  counterparts 
and  antitypes,  mental  excellence  and  moral  worth.  Instead 
of  setting  her  heart  upon  wealth,  she  was  led  to  seek  dura- 
ble riches.  Mrs.  Wilmot  superintended  the  whole  course  of 
her  daughters  education,  and  when  she  had  fulfilled  all  her 
plans  and  completed  her  work,  Clara  was  all  that  she  desired 
her  to  be,  a  sensible  and  accomplished  female  and  a  humble 
Christian. 

This  lovely  flower  bloomed  and  shed  its  fragrance  under 
the  spreading  oaks  and  towering  elms  of  the  ancient  and 
venerable  seat  of  the  Wilmot's,  until  transfered  by  the  hand 
of  Mr.  Hinton,  a   gentleman  of  rank  and   fortune,  to  his 
splendid  suburban  palace  of  London.     Clara  loved  dearly 
the  shades  of  retirement  where  she  could  study  the  works 
of  God  ;   she  had  no  ambition  to  shine  among  the  stars  of 
the  fashionable  world,  and  it  was  difficult  to  draw  her  from 
her  sylvan  retreat  to  mingle  in  the  gay  circles  of  the  metro- 
polis.    Yet  she  had  been  taught  to  adapt  herself  to  every 
situation  ;  and  she  was  fitted  as  well  to  shine  in  courts  as  to 
grace  her  rural  home.     Her  husband  felt  that  he  had  found 
in  her  a  priceless  gem,  and  lavished  upon  her  all  the  affec- 
tions of  a  deeply  devoted  heart,  and  treated  her  as  though 
she  were  a  queen ;  and  she  knew  how  to  be  grateful  for 
such  devotion  and  such  attentions  without  becoming  vain,  and 
encreasing  her  exactions  proportionabfy.     Their  united  for- 
tunes, gave  them  the  means  of  boundless  indulgence,  but  in 
nothing,  perhaps,  was  Mr.  H.  prone  to  be  so  lavish  in  his  expen- 
diture, as  in  adorning  the  beautiful  person  of  his  wife,  which 
needed  not  the  aid  of  ornament  to  encrease  her  attractions  or 
her  influence  over  him.     He  took  great  delight  and  pride  in 
arraying  her  in  splendid  attire,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  not  only 
befitting  her  rank  and  circumstances,  but  also  becoming  her 


120  THE  mother's  treasure. 

person,  which  was  the  perfection  of  beauty.  This  was  an 
extremely  delicate  point  to  manage,  and,  few  would  have 
managed  it  with  as  much  prudence  and  skill  as  did  Mrs. 
Hinton.  It  must  be  admitted,  that  rich  attire  becomes  a 
lady  of  great  beauty  ;  like  a  diamond  set  in  gold,  there  is  a 
congruity  between  the  person  and  the  attire.  Whereas,  the 
more  elegant  the  costume  of  a  plain-looking  and  homely 
female  is,  the  more  evident  is  it,  it  is  designed  to  supply  the 
place  of  beauty,  to  conceal  personal  defects,  and  set  off  the 
person  to  advantage.  But  the  artifice  generally  fails  of  its 
object,  since  the  more  ornamental  and  splendid  the  dress, 
the  more  glaring  are  the  defects.  The  folly  of  such  consists 
in  their  wishing  to  pass  for  what  they  are  not;  and  it  is 
their  unhappiness  to  know  and  feel  that  the  admiration 
expressed  for  them  centres  not  in  their  person,  but  in  their 
dress  ;  or  they  receive  credit  for  what  they  know  and  what 
others  know  they  do  not  possess.  A  homely  woman  shining 
in  jewels  and  rich  attire,  is  like  a  common  rough  stone  set 
in  a  circlet  of  diamonds.  The  truth  is,  plain  comely  dress 
becomes  plain  looking  females,  and  vice  versa.  While  it 
must  be  admitted  beauty  is  not  enhanced  by  glaring  and 
superfluous  ornaments,  we  cannot  subscribe  to  the  com- 
monly received  and  oft-quoted  sentiment  of  the  poet,  that 
"  Beauty  when  unadorned  is  adorned  the  most."  None  will 
think  for  a  moment  that  a  beautiful  female  would  look  as 
well  in  a  shilling  calico  or  linsy  woolsy,  as  in  a  splendid  silk 
or  satin  dress.  By  common  consent,  a  beautiful  woman 
arrayed  in  elegant  attire  is  one  of  the  most  lovely  and 
attractive  objects  in  the  world. 

In  the  article  of  dress  Mrs.  Hinton  consulted  the  taste  and 
humor  of  her  husband,  yet  without  displaying  an  extravagant 
love  of  finery,  and  going  into  the  excesses  which  charac- 
terize the  devotees  of  fashion.  However  costly  the  dres» 
she  wore,  her  husband  saw  plainly,  as  well  from  her  occa- 
sional remarks,  as  from  the  general  tenor  of  her  life,  that  her 
thoughts  were  occupied  with  more  important  subjects  than 
the  decoration  of  her  person,  and  the  contemplation  of  her 


THE  mother's  treasure.  121 

charms :  and  hence  he  was  insensibly  and  gradually  led  to 
think  less  of  the  attractions  of  personal  beauty,  and  more  of 
the  enduring  perfections  of  the  mind,  until  at  length  he 
became  happily  assimilated  to  her  in  his  spirit,  desires  and 
hopes. 

Happy  husband  !  happy  in  the  possession  of  a  wife  in 
whom  is  centred  almost  every  human  perfection.  Look  at 
that  face  radiant  alike  with  beauty  and  intelligence,  and  that 
form  of  fine  proportions  and  matchless  symmetry  !  Behold 
her  seated  on  an  elegant  lounge,  richly  dressed,  with  her  little 
daughter,  the  lovely  reflection  of  her  own  image,  reclining  on 
her  bosom,  with  a  Bible  open  before  her,  out  of  which  she 
has  been  instructing  her  in  the  knowledge  of  God  and  the 
ways  of  virtue.  With  such  a  mother,  what  fear  can  we 
have  for  the  daughter.  Night  and  day  she  will  watch  over 
the  precious  treasure  and  see  that  it  is  not  lost  through  her 
carelessness  and  inattention.  Who  can  fathom  the  depths 
of  a  mothers  love  !  It  is  a  fountain  which  never  fails.  Let 
the  daughters  of  wealth  contemplate  the  character  of  Mrs. 
Hinton  ;  mark  with  what  dignity  and  grace  she  fulfils  all  the 
relations  of  life,  and  study  to  imitate  those  virtues  which 
invest  her  with  such  attractions  and  render  her  so  happy. 


SALMASIUS. 
Salmasius  was  a  man  of  most  extraordinary  abilities,  his 
name  resounded  through  Europe,  and  his  presence  was 
earnestly  sought  in  different  nations.  When  he  arrived  at 
the  evening  of  life,  he  acknowledged  that  he  had  too  much, 
and  too  earnestly,  engaged  in  literary  pursuits :  "  O  ! "  said 
he,  "  I  have  lost  an  immense  portion  of  time  ;  time,  that 
most  precious  thing  in  the  World !  Had  I  but  one  year 
more,  it  should  be  spent  in  studying  David's  Psalms,  and 
Paul's  epistles.  Oh !  Sirs,"  said  he  to  those  about  him, 
"mind  the  World  less  and  God  more:  'The  fear  of  the  Lord, 
that  is  wisdom :  and  to  depart  from  evil,  that  is  understand- 
ing.'" 


122  A    SACRED    SONG. 

Original. 
A  SACRED  SONG. 

BY  MARY  S.  B.  DANA,  NEW  YORK, 

When  the  syren,  Pleasure, 

Woos  me  to  her  arras, 
Sings  in  softest  measure, 

Lures  with  sweetest  chai'ms, 
Then,  Almighty  Spirit, 

O,  remember  me ! 
By  thy  dying  merit, 

Saviour,  set  me  free  ! 

When  my  steps  are  straying 

Far  from  thee,  my  God  ? 
And  m.y  feet,  delaying, 

Love  the  dang'rous  road, 
Then,  Almighty  Spirit, 

O,  remember  me ! 
Saviour !  by  thy  merit. 

Lead  me  back  to  thee  ! 

When  my  foes,  prevailing, 

Triumph  and  rejoice. 
When  my  heart  is  failing, 

Hushed  my  tuneful  voice. 
Then,  Almighty  Spirit, 

O,  remember  me ! 
Saviour,  by  thy  merit, 

Let  me  rest  in  thee  ! 

When  my  life  is  ending, 

When  I'm  called  to  die. 
When  my  soul,  ascending. 

Seeks  her  home  on  high, 
Then,  Almighty  Sprit, 

O,  remember  me ! 
Saviour,  by  thy  merit, 

Take  my  soul  to  thee  ? 


FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS.  123 

Original. 

FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS. 

BY    MRS.    S.    C.    m'cABE. 

"  Caroline,  have  you  received  a  card  of  invitation  to  attend 

the  Soiree   to-morrow  evening,  at  Mrs.  D s,"   said    a 

young  lady  to  her  friend,  as  she  reclined  upon  an  ottoman, 
whiling  away  the  weary  hours  of  recovery  from  a  danger- 
ous illness,  in  the  enchanting  regions  of  fiction. — 'Yes,'  said 
Caroline,  '  but  my  mother  wishes  me  to  decline  the  invita- 
tion :  she  frequently  remarks  since  the  death  of  Aurelius, 
that  society  has  lost  its  charms,  that  Earth  appears  dark  and 
cheerless,  as  if  all  was  dead  or  dying  except  sorrow ;  and 
we  are  both  convinced,  that  this  world  is  an  unsatisfying 
portion  in  the  day  of  trouble,  and  are  determined  to  seek 
else-where  for  happiness ! 

'  Ah !'  said  Helen,  '  my  mother  entertains  very  different 

views  ;'  she  says  *  I  had  better  go  to  Mrs.  D s  to-morrow 

night,  as  gay  company  will^elieve  the  tedium  of  low  spirits, 
and  have  a  favorable  effect  upon  my  health.'  And  so  our 
young  friend,  at  the  earnest  solicitation  of  her  mother,  went 
to  mingle  in  the  exciting  throng  of  fashion,  when  the  hectic 
glow  upon  the  cheek,  would  have  suggested  to  a  more 
thoughtful  observer,  a  quiet  room,  pure  air,  and  careful 
nursing. 

'  Oh !  my  head  aches  to  bursting  !  and  the  weight  I  feel 
upon  my  heart  is  insupportable,'  was  the  ejaculation  of  Helen 
to  her  mother,  upon  the  following  morning,  and  the  tears 
fell  fast  from  her  expressive  eye. 

'  Oh !  my  dear,  I  hope  you  have  not  taken  cold,  perhaps 
the  waltzing  was  too  much  of  an  effort,  you  should  have 
entered  some  pleasant  circle  at  quadrille,  or  joined  in  a  game 
of  ecarte  or  eucre ;  this  you  could  have  endured  without 
fatigue :   your  nervous   system   is   deranged,   your    spirits 


124  FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS. 

droop,  but  never  yield  to  despondency,  I  have  a  few  calls  to 
make  this  morning,  and  then  I  will  read  for  you  some  of  the 
finished  productions  of  De  Israeli — Venitia — Vivian  Gray, 
or  the  wondrous  tales  of  Alroy,  and  these  unpleasant  ner- 
vous sensations  will  soon  disappear.'  *  Oh !  my  head  aches !' 
was  the  only  response  of  Helen — and  the  mother  withdrew, 
for  her  morning  excursion. 

Mrs.  K ,  was  a  woman  evidently  incorrect  in  all  her 

views  and  perceptions  of  moral  truth.  Her  visions  of  hap- 
piness were  in  festive  halls  amidst  admiring  crowds ;  while 
the  frivolous  demands  of  fashionable  life,  were  a  sufficient 
excuse  at  any  time  for  the  neglect  of  domestic  duties.  Her 
husband  was  a  man  of  wealth  and  of  the  world,  yet  pos- 
sessing more  discernment  and  reflection  ;  years  before  he  had 
given  up  the  search  for  abiding  fruition  amidst  the  heartless- 
ness  of  fashionable  display,  while  imagination  pictured  in 
glowing  colors  the  purer  and  more  enduring  pleasures  of 
domestic  life.  But  alas !  for  him,  these  sunny  illusions  of 
hope,  became  dim  shadows  in  his  future  path.  Exquisitely 
painful,  was  Mrs.  K 's  inconsiderate  and  unwearied  pur- 
suit of  vanity,  yet  after  years  of  disapproval,  without  any 
satisfactory  change  in  her  habits  and  sentiments,  he  deter- 
mined to  act  the  philosopher,  to  forget  what  might  have  been 
his,  of  bliss,  with  a  different  centre  to  his  domestic  circle, 
and  to  endure  with  a  nerved  spirit  the  actual,  with  its  bitter- 
ness and  clouds. 

Helen  K was  a  favorite  child,  the  idol  of  her  father ; 

afflictive  indeed  to  him,  was  the  obvious  influence  of  this 
misjudging  mother,  in  stamping  upon  her  young  mind  the 
defective  outlines  of  her  own  character.  Helen,  was  a  girl 
of  more  than  ordinary  promise ;  if  in  the  sanctuary  of 
childhood,  she  had  been  nurtured  with  prayer,  and  taken 
her  impressions  for  life  from  the  controlling  influences 
of  sanctified  parental  example,  she  might  now  have  been 
treading  our  Earth  a  communicating  medium  of  light  and 
blessedness  to  kindred  hearts.  But  early  in  life  she  knelt  in 
homage  at  the  shrine  of  her  mother's  idolatry :  the  gilded 


FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS.  125 

haunts  of  fashionable  pleasure  presenting  to  her,  the  only 
sources  of  happiness ;  sources  so  dependent  upon  exterior 
contingencies,  as  to  keep  the  heart  forever  feverish  and 
anxious,  at  the  expense  of  health,  and  every  ray  of  consola- 
tion, that  streams  from  a  kindlier  sphere,  to  light  up  the 
darkness  of  this.  Her  mind  became  the  receptical  of  all 
the  sickly  sentimentality  of  fiction  in  its  most  forbidding 
garb ;  her  view^s  of  life  were  false ;  her  ideal  of  loveliness 
and  bliss  found  no  counterpart  in  the  actual.  In  this  rest- 
less pursuit  of  shadow^s  that  elude  the  grasp,  is  it  strange 
that  the  spirit  sinks  and  murmurs,  or  that  these  airy  dreams 
of  fancy  should  end  in  chagrin  and  misanthropy  ?  Such 
was  the  result,  in  the  case  of  our  young  friend  ;  a  thick 
earthly  covering  of  darkness  and  sorrow,  spread  like  a  pall 
over  her  youthful  visions ;  and  she  became  any  thing  else, 
save  the  mirthful  creature  that  moved  of  late  so  gracefully 
at  the  sound  of  the  harp  and  the  viol.  Retiring  from  the 
atmosphere  of  a  crowded  ball-room,  clad  in  thin  attire,  upon 
a  chill  November  morning,  laid  the  foundation  of  disease 
from  which  she  never  but  partially  recovered.  And  how- 
ever anxious  she  might  have  been,  to  attend  the  gay  circles 

at  Mrs.  D s,  with  all  of  former  health  and  vivacity  of 

spirit,  we  find  she  returns  with  a  violent  head-ache,  and  a 
sad  heart. 

Reader,  are  you  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  and  do  you  bend 
in  adoration  at  the  same  empty  shrine  ?  have  you  no  appre- 
hensions for  the  future  ?  Pause  !  and  ponder  !  Your  tran- 
sition from  sanguine  hope  to  painful  certainty  may  be  equally 
unexpected,  with  equal  gloom  in  the  prospect ;  to  these 
untimely  evening  shadows  over  Earth's  promised  joys,  may 
succeed  a  starless  midnight  that  knows  no  coming  morn. 

Helen  had  been  dangerously  ill  for  many  weeks  ;  but  the 
idea  of  death  had  never  entered  her  mind  :  ministering  af- 
fection laved  the  burning,  throbbing  temples,  kissed  away 
the  starting  tears,  and  watched  the  pulse  decline,  but  in  that 
darkened  chamber,  there  was  no  sympathising  action  at  the 
throne  of  the  heavenly  grace  in  behalf  of  the  immortal  spirit, 


126  FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS. 

but  a  continual  effort  to  pre-occupy  the  attention  with  sunny 
prospects  of  health  and  happiness. 

To  the  enquiry's  of  her  friend  Caroline,  during  her  moth- 
er's absence  upon  the  morning  referred  to,  it  was  evident 
that  Helen  had  become  painfully  apprehensive  of  threatening 
danger :  trembling  with  excitement,  said  she  '  I  have  taken 
an  additional  cold,  I  feel  very  much  worse,'  and  in  a  des- 
pairing tone  she  added  '  the  terrible  thought  has  presented 
itself  for  the  first  time,  that  it  is  possible  I  may  not  recover.' 
This  was  the  weight  upon  her  heart  of  which  she  complained 
as  insupportable  ;  this  it  was  that  unsealed  the  fountain  of 
her  tears. 

Caroline  L ,  ever  kind  and  affectionate,  had  become 

familiar  with  human  suffering,  and  painfully  conscious  that 
earthly  props  are  broken  spears,  when  God  speaks  to  us  in 
adversity,  bids  us  look  into  the  grave,  and  forward  to  the 
judgment  and  its  eternal  retributions.  The  previous  Au- 
tumn came  hand  and  hand  with  death — the  noble  form  of 
her  blooming  and  only  brother  had  been  muffled  in  the 
winding  sheet  and  consigned  to  the  companionship  of  worms. 
The  result  was,  parents  and  daughter  turned  an  eye  to 
Heaven, 

"  They  bid  the  world  its  pomp  and  show 
With  all  its  glittering  snares  adieu." 

Works  of  fiction  were  displaced ;  the  Bible  was  no  longer  a 
neglected  book,  while  through  the  Divine  teachings  they 
were  led  ultimately  to  recognize  in  all  a  Father's  hand. 

Caroline  became  deeply  interested  for  her  friend  ;  her 
frequent  remonstrances  hitherto,  had  been  met  by  indiffer- 
ence and  unconcern,  with  a  marked  aversion  on  the  part  of 
the  mother,  to  every  thing  of  a  serious  nature  ;  and  in 
answer  to  these  fearful  forebodings  of  coming  ill,  Caroline, 
said,  "  I  know  your  mother  will  be  angry  with  me,  Helen, 
but  I  do  intreat  you,  in  this  your  time  of  distress,  turn  away 
from  the  treacherous  charms  of  the  world,  and  seek  consola- 
tion from  a  higher  and  better  source  ;  whatever  is  for  us  in 


FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS.  127 

the  future  we  must  meet ;  is  it  not  better  to  prepare  for  the 
worst  than  to  be  taken  by  surprise  ?  You  already  know  my 
dear  girl,  that — 

"  It  is  not  all  of  life  to  live 
Nor  all  of  death  to  die." 

Here  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  K ,  prevented  further  re- 
marks ;  but  all  future  endeavors  to  interest  her  m  the  pictures 
of  romance  and  tragedy,  which  the  mother  vainly  supposed 
would  serve  as  a  quietus,  were  fruitless  and  inffectual. 

"  Throw  aside  those  curtains,  that  I  may  inhale  the  balmy 
breath  of  this  pleasant  evening,"  said  Helen,  after  a  day  of 
exquisite  suffering,  during  which  physicians  had  been  all  the 
time  in  attendance  ;  her  pulse,  one  hundred  and  twenty, 
while  her  short  irregular  respiration,  and  the  hectic  upon 
each  cheek,  told  a  fearful  tale.  By  the  aid  of  a  Stethoscope, 
every  hope  of  recovery  had  been  crushed  ;  all  that  remained, 
was  so  to  administer  to  the  suffering  patient,  as  to  render 
her  descent  to  the  grave  as  easy  as  possible.  During  an  in- 
termission of  suffering,  she  asked  to  sit  upon  the  sofa,  they 
raised  her  gently  from  the  couch,  the  departing  sun-light 
streaming  through  the  damask  crimson  at  the  windows,  gave 
something  like  the  hue  of  health,  to  her  Grecian  cast  of 
features  ;  her  eyes,  ever  expressive,  were  lit  up  with  a 
double  brilliancy,  as  she  said  with  a  deep  agitation  of  manner, 
"  Doctor,  tell  me  that  I  shall  certainly  recover.  It  must  be 
so.  I  cannot  die  !  Death  is  but  another  name  for  all  that  is 
horrible  of  which  I  have  ever  conceived,  and  I  feel  that  it 
will  be  so.  I  am  much  better  to-night ;  I  feel  almost  well ; 
am  I  not  better  Doctor  ?"     *'  Yes,  Helen,  you  are   better, 

but ."     "  Oh  !  yes,"  rejoined  the  mother,  "  my  darling 

will  certainly  get  well,  it  cannot  be  otherwise." 

Six  weeks  elapsed  and  Helen  yet  lay  upon  her  couch, 
wasting  and  weakening  by  disease  ;  while  the  most  skeptical 
could  no  longer  resist  the  evidence,  that  she  was  fast  sinking 
into  the  deep  slumbers  of  the  grave.     The  morning  was  her 


128  FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS. 

time  for  exhaustion,  the  evening  generally  found   her  re- 
vived and  more  self  possessed. 

****** 

The  day  had  beeji  sultry,  but  v^^as  succeeded  by  a  beauti- 
ful sun-set,  cloudless — vyrhile  the  fragrant  zephyrs  circulating 
through  the  apartment,  seemed  to  revive  the  latent  energies 
of  the  languishing  invalid.  All  w^as  breathless  silence,  while 
she  seemed  to  gaze  with  interest  upon  the  scenery  without ; 
when  suddenly  and  distinctly  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  I  am 
most  wretched  !  Mother,  you  have  ever  encouraged  me  to 
believe  that  I  would  recover ;  something  tells  me  that  I  never 
shall ;  and  my  mind  dwells  continually  upon  the  fearful  lines 
repeated  to  me  by  Caroline  L , 

•'  It  is  not  all  of  life  to  live. 
Nor  all  of  death  to  die. 

Oh  !  my  mother,  why  did  you  not  speak  to  me  of  this,  and 
not  bid  me  seek  relief  in  gay  assemblies  and  novels.  Now, 
it  is  too  late.  I  cannot  breathe  a  prayer  to  Heaven,  I  have 
never  been  taught  to  pray,  I  could  not  if  I  would."  "  Oh  !" 
she  continued,  "  I  am  afraid  of  death ;  it  is  not  yielding  up 
my  breath,  and  becoming  forever  insensible  to  all  here,  from 
which  I  shrink.  No  !  it  is  the  terrible  hereafter,  the  some- 
thing beyond  the  grave  at  which  I  shudder  and  recoil  1 
Mother,  is  there  not  a  passage  of  scripture  something  like 
this,  '  having  no  hope  and  without  God  in  the  world  V  I 
feel  its  meaning  !  Oh !  we  have  been  treasuring  up  dust, 
pursuing  shadows,  but  the  spell  is  broken,  the  enchantment 
is  dissolved ;  a  veil  is  thrown  over  all  that  once  delighted 
this  poor,  fainting,  sinking  heart,  and  now  where  shall  I  go 
for  CO —  comfort,  for  re —  relief;"  here  she  sunk  back  ex- 
hausted ;  again,  revived  ;  every  heart  was  moved  to  tears. 
"  Ah  !"  said  she,  "  well  may  you  weep,  for  me  it  is  too  late  ! 
The  door  is  shut,  the  returning  season  is  past,  on  me  no  ray 
of  mercy  e'er  will  shine,"  and  swooned  upon  her  pillow. 
The  street  door-bell  gave  intimation  of  the  arrival  of  the 
attending    physician.      "  Oh !   God    of  mercy  I    exclaimed 


FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS.  129 

the  mother  "  Doctor  can  you  do  nothing  to  save  her, 
must  she  die  ?"  "  Madam,  her  case  is  a  hopeless  one,  I 
can  do  nothing  more  ;  she  might  have  recovered  from  her 
first  attack,  had  she  not  ventured  out  through  the  chill  night 

air,  to  attend  Mrs.  D s  soiree,  when  too  ill  to  be  out  of 

bed,"  said  the  Doctor  reprovingly.  '•  Ah  !  my  God  !  ex- 
claimed the  father,  "  my  daughter  is  another  victim  upon  the 

CRIMSONED  ALTAR  of  FASHIONABLE  AMUSEMENTS. 
To   be   concluded. 


PRACTICAL   HINTS. 

Negligence. — There  is  a  carelessness  about  some  young 
persons  that  is  manifest  in  almost  every  thing  they  do.  Re- 
gardless of  the  future,  or  the  opinions  of  others,  they  rush 
forward  in  some  new  project,  and  before  they  see  their  error, 
it  is  impossible  to  retrace  their  steps.  If  they  attempt  to 
study,  it  is  done  superficially.  If  they  work,  it  is  often  per- 
formed unfaithfully.  When  anything  new  is  presented  to 
their  minds,  they  enter  into  it  with  all  their  hearts,  to  the 
neglect  of  what  may  be  of  greater  importance,  and  by  fre- 
quently changing  their  plans  and  pursuits,  fail  of  success. 
Minds  capable  of  high  efforts — of  splendid  achievements,  of 
extensive  usefulness  have  been  paralyzed  by  its  influence. 

Discontent. — A  man  of  discontented  mind  and  ungovern- 
able passions,  can  scarcely  find  a  situation  where  he  will  be 
happy.  Give  him  wealth,  honor,  luxury,  ease,  and  all  the 
comfort  which  Earth  can  afford,  still  his  own  irritable  spirit, 
superinduced  by  his  own  lack  of  moral  and  mental  culture, 
will  poison  all. 

Truth. — The  heaviest  fetter  that  ever  weighed  down  the 
limbs  of  a  captive,  is  as  the  web  of  the  gossamer,  compared 
with  the  pledge  of  a  man  of  honor.  The  wall  of  stone,  and 
the  bar  of  iron  may  be  broken,  but  his  plighted  word  never. 


130  PRACTICAL    HINTS. 

Kindness. — Help  others  and  you  relieve  yourself.  Go 
out  and  drive  away  the  cloud  from  that  friend's  brow,  and 
you  will  return  with  a  lighter  heart.  A  word  may  blight 
the  brightest  hope  ;  a  word  may  revive  the  dying.  A  frown 
may  crush  a  gentle  heart.  The  smile  of  love,  or  forgiveness 
may  relieve  from  torture. 

Gratitude. — Be  careful  to  teach  your  children  gratitude. 
Lead  them  to  acknowledge  every  favor  that  they  receive  ; 
to  speak  often  of  their  benefactors,  and  to  ask  blessings  for 
them.  Accustom  them  to  treat  with  marked  attention  their 
instructors,  and  those  who  have  aided  them  in  the  attainment 
of  knowledge  or  piety.  Gratitude  is  one  of  our  first  duties 
to  God,  and  should  not  be  forgotten  when  due  to  man. 

Temper. — No  trait  of  character  is  more  valuable  than  the 
possession  of  a  good  temper.  Home  can  never  be  made 
happy  without  it.  It  is  like  flowers  that  spring  up  in  our 
pathway,  reviving  and  cheering  us.  Kind  words  and  looks 
are  the  outward  demonstrations ;  patience  and  forbearance 
are  the  sentinels  within.  Study  to  acquire  and  retain  a 
sweet  temper.  It  is  more  valuable  than  gold — it  captivates 
more  than  beauty,  and  to  the  close  of  life  retains  its  fresh- 
ness and  power. 

Politeness. — Good  breeding  is  both  sanctioned,  and  sug- 
gested by  enlightened  reason.  Its  principles  are  founded  in 
a  love  of  virtue  and  a  just  appreciation  of  the  rights  of  others. 
It  is  by  discipline  and  effort  that  we  attain  to  that  elevation 
of  character  which  enables,  and  inclines  us  to  practice  self- 
denial  and  consult  the  honor  and  happiness  of  others.  Let 
no  one  think  it  of  little  consequence  whether  he  has  the 
manners  of  a  clown  or  a  gentleman.  Politeness  is  a  passport 
to  the  respect  and  friendship  of  the  refined  and  intelligent, 
and  wins  favor  even  from  the  vulgar.  It  is  benevolence  and 
kindness  carried  into  the  details  of  life,  and  throws  a  charm 
around  its  most  common  scenes.  Let  it  be  cultivated,  and 
its  beauties  will  daily  unfold ;  with  time  and  patience  the 
leaf  of  the  mulberry  tree  becomes  satin. 


LINES.  131 

Original. 

LINES 

WRITTEN  WHILE  CROSSING  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 

BY     CLAUDIUS     E.     WEBSTER,     M.     D. 

Grood  bye  Old  Granite  State,  good  bye. 
For  twenty  years  have  you  and  I 

Cast  in  our  lot  together, 
But  many  a  mile  must  part  awhile, 
Ere  you  and  I  exchange  a  smile. 

And  ah  I  perhaps,  forever ! 

Your  hills  look  blue  in  the  distant  view, 
And  rivers  roll  'twixt  me  and  you, 

Their  courses  on  to  Ocean — 
Dsepning  their  pathway,  shock  by  shock. 
Traced  by  God's  finger  in  the  rock — 

In  ever  restless  motion. 

There  was  a  spot  I  once  called  home. 
In  thee in  sight  of  ocean's  foam. 

In  hearing  of  its  thunder ; 
But  now,  among  thy  vales  and  hills, 
Thy  roaring  streams  or  ripling  rills. 

There's  home  for  me  no  longer. 

'Tis  true  thou  art  my  mother  dear. 
And  all  the  world  looked  gay  and  clear. 

When  I  with  thee  began  it. 
But  ah  !  so  cold  and  hard  your  heart. 
That  you  and  I  are  forced  to  part. 

'Tis  made  of  ice  and  granite  ! 

Yet  though  thy  hills  are  rough  and  bleak. 
And  few  there  are  thy  praise  to  speak. 

Or  only  faults  discover. 
Yet  here  and  there's  a  lovely  spot. 
Never  in  life  to  be  forgot. 

Where  memory  loves  to  hover. 


132  A  mother's  love, 

There's  here  and  there  a  noble  heart, 
True  as  the  the  steel,  unmixed  with  art. 

Whose  love  is  worth  possessing — 
Which  from  the  right  will  ne'er  be  turned, 
For  all  that  baseness  ever  earned, 

By  fawning  or  caressing. 


A    MOTHER'S   LOVE. 

See   Steel  Engraving. 

A  Mother's  love  !    Ah,  what  can  be 
Of  Earth's  affections  half  so  holy, 

from  sin  and  selfishness  so  free. 
So  little  tinged  with  human  folly .' 

Look  on  that  face,  so  calm,  so  mild ! 

What  love  beams  forth  in  every  feature ! 
Ah,  thou  shouldst  treasure,  lovely  child. 

The  lessons  of  thy  gentle  teacher 

From  her  thou  mayest  learn  to  shun 
The  paths  that  lead  to  sin  and  sorrow ; 

And  through  the  course  thou  ha^t  to  run, 
Her  bright  example  may'st  thou  borrow. 

May  peace  upon  ye  both  attend. 
Fair  gentle  child  and  lovely  mother ; 

When  in  this  world  your  course  shall  end. 
May  ye  be  blessed  in  another  ! 


SCRAP. 

About  eighty  years  ago,  a  motion  was  made  in  Parlia- 
ment for  raising  and  embodying  the  Militia,  and,  for  the 
purpose  of  saving  time,  to  exercise  them  on  Sundays. 
When  the  motion  was  likely  to  pass,  an  old  gentleman  stood 
up  and  said,  "  Mr.  Speaker,  I  have  one  objection  to  this, — I 
believe  in  an  old  book  called  the  Bible."  The  members 
looked  at  one  another,  and  the  motion  was  dropped. 


STRAWBERRIES   AND   CURRANTS. 


ROMAN    VIRTUE^  133 


Original. 
GEM     OF     HISTORY. 

ROMAN    VIRTUE. 

Generosity  does  not  consist  in  doing  justice  where  it  is 
due,  nor  in  obeying  every  impulse  of  humanity  in  a  lavish 
or  w^asteful  distribution  of  favors.  The  character  of  an 
action  is  to  be  determined  by  the  motive  or  disposition  which 
prompts  it.  Thus,  generosity  is  the  fruit  of  a  liberal  and 
magnanimous  disposition,  and  exhibits  itself  in  noble  disinter- 
ested acts  of  kindness. 

The  conduct  of  the  war  against  the  Falisci,  having  been 
commited  to  Camillus,  the  Roman  dictator,  he  besieged  Falerii, 
their  capital  city,  and  drew  around  it  the  lines  of  circumvalla- 
tion ;  these,  however,  were  so  distant  from  the  walls  that  the 
besieged  had  ample  room  for  exercise,  to  take  the  air  without 
danger.  The  Falisci  had  a  custom  of  entrusting  the 
education  of  all  their  children  to  one  man,  whose  business 
it  was  to  direct  their  studies  and  recreations,  to  instruct 
them  in  all  the  branches  of  polite  literature,  to  take  them 
out,  walking  with  him,  and  accustoming  them  to  those 
bodily  exercises  which  were  proper  for  their  age,  and  neces- 
sary to  promote  their  health.  The  children  of  the  Falisci 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  walking  with  their  master  without  the 
walls  of  the  city,  before  the  siege ;  and  now  that  the  enemy  was 
at  such  a  distance  and  kept  so  quiet,  their  fears  did  not  induce 
them  to  discontinue  these  delightful  exercises. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  ere  a  most  distressing  calamity 
befel  this  interesting  band  of  trusting  youths.  The  man 
who,  at  that  time,  had  the  charge  of  their  education  proved 
a  traitor,  and  violated  his  solemn  trust.  At  first  he  lead  the 
youth  along  the  walls ;  then  he  ventured  a  little  farther. 
At  length,  when  a  favorable  opportunity  presented,  he  led 
them  through  the  guards  of  the  Roman  camp,  quite  to  the? 


134  ROMAN    VIRTUE. 

general's  tent.  As  the  interesting  group  contained  the 
children  of  the  first  families  of  the  place,  the  treacherous 
leader,  when  he  came  into  Camillas'  presence,  addressed 
him  thus  ;  "  With  these  children,  I  deliver  the  besieged  city 
into  your  hands  ;  they  were  committed  to  my  care  and  tui- 
tion, but  I  prefer  the  friendship  of  Rome  to  my  employment 
at  Falerii." 

Our  young  readers  and  especially  parents,  may  form 
some  idea  of  the  sudden  gloom  which  overspread  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Falerii,  when  the  sad  and  affecting  tale  was  told  that 
their  children  had  thus  been  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  the 
Romans,  to  be  held  as  prisoners  and  hostages  until  they  were 
willing  to  submit  to  whatever  terms  might  be  imposed  upon 
them.  Americans  are  wont  to  rank  Benedict  Arnold  as  the 
first  on  the  list  of  traitors,  but  here  is  one  who  takes  prece- 
dency of  him  in  baseness  ;  the  perjured  instructor,  who 
sought  to  purchase  the  favor  of  an  enemy  at  the  sacrifice  of 
the  hope  and  flower  of  a  people.  But  our  readers  are 
anxious  to  know  what  success  the  infamous  plot  met  with, 
and  how  the  Roman  general  was  affected  by  the  surrender  of 
so  precious  and  unexpected  a  hostage.  Camillus  was  struck 
with  horror  at  so  base  an  act,  and  looking  at  the  man  with  a 
menacing  air,  thus  addressed  him  ;  "  Traitor,  you  do  not  ad- 
dress yourself  with  your  impious  present,  either  to  a  general 
or  a  people  that  resemble  you  ;  we  have,  indeed,  no  express 
and  formal  alliance  with  the  Falisci,  but  that  which  nature 
has  estabUshed  between  all  men,  both  does  and  shall  subsist 
between  us.  War  has  its  rights  as  well  as  peace,  and  we 
have  learned  to  make  it  with  no  less  justice  than  valor.  We 
are  not  in  arms  against  an  age  which  is  spared,  even  in  cities 
taken  by  assault,  but  against  men  armed  like  yourselves ; 
men  who,  without  any  previous  injury  from  us,  attacked  the 
Roman  camp  at  Veii.  Thou,  to  the  utmost  of  thy  power, 
hast  succeeded  them  by  a  new  and  different  kind  of  crime  ; 
but  for  me,  I  shall  conquer  as  at  Veii,  by  Roman  arts,  by 
valor  and  perseverance." 

How  must  the  traitor  have  stood  aghast  at  hearing  this 


ROMAN    VIRTUE.  135 

noble  speech  !  How  wide  the  contrast  between  the  senti- 
ments of  this  noble  Roman  and  the  principles  of  this  unblushing 
traitor  !  But  Camillus  did  not  stop  here  ;  he  did  not  dismiss 
him  with  this  reprimand  only  ;  he  caused  him  to  be  stripped 
and  to  have  his  hands  tied  behind  him.  Then,  arminoj  the 
young  scholars  with  rods,  he  ordered  them  to  drive  him  back 
into  the  city,  and  to  scourge  him  all  the  way  ;  which  they 
did,  doubtless,  with  good  will.  Never  did  a  teacher  so  richly 
merit  such  chastisement  at  the  hand  of  his  scholars  as  in  this 
case  !  never  was  punishment  more  appropriate  or  just !  The 
Falisci,  who  had  been  inconsolable  for  the  loss  of  their 
children,  beholding  them  enter  the  city  thus,  raised  a  shout 
of  joy  ;  and  it  would  not  be  strange,  if  peals  of  laughter 
mingled  with  those  joyful  shouts.  Charmed  beyond  measure 
with  so  uncommon  an  example  of  justice  and  exalted  virtue, 
the  Falisci  resolved  at  once  to  be  at  peace  with  such  gener- 
ous enemies,  and  accordingly  sent  deputies  to  the  camp,  and 
afterwards  to  Rome,  where  in  the  audience  of  the  people  they 
thus  spake  ;  "  Illustrious  Fathers,  conquered  by  you  and  your 
general  in  a  manner  that  can  give  no  offence  to  the  gods 
and  men,  we  are  come  to  surrender  ourselves  to  you, 
assuring  ourselves  that  we  shall  live  happier  under  your 
government  than  under  our  own  laws.  The  event  of  this 
war  has  furnished  mankind  with  two  excellent  examples. 
First,  you  fathers,  have  prefered  justice  to  immediate  con- 
quest ;  and  we,  influenced  by  that  justice  which  we  admire, 
voluntarily  award  you  the  victory. 

Few  of  our  readers  will  forget  the  story  of  the  school- 
master of  Falerii ;  but  the  illustrious  example  of  disinter- 
ested kindness  and  generosity  left  us  by  the  noble  Camillus, 
should  be  viewed  as  a  light  shining  from  remote  ages,  to 
direct  us  in  the  path  of  virtue  and  true  glory.  Scarcely 
does  the  history  of  modern  warfare  furnish  such  an  instance 
of  magnanimity.  O  how  rare  are  such  examples  !  What 
an  influence  it  would  give  a  man  amongst  us,  if  it  were 
known  he  possessed  such  a  spirit  as  this  virtuous  Roman  ! 
When   men  have   got  their  enemies  in   their   power,  they 


136  ROMAN    VIRTUE. 

generally  use  that  power  with  rigor.  Alas,  how  eagerly 
will  they  seize  an  opportunity  to  satiate  their  revenge,  or 
subserve  their  selfish  or  ambitious  purposes.  During  the 
thirty  years  we  have  narrowly  observed  the  ways  of  men, 
we  have  seen  little  that  resembles  the  lofty  and  disinter- 
ested virtue  of  the  Roman  leader. 


CANARY    BIRDS. 

Canaries  are  not  naturally  so  delicate  as  they  are  thought 
to  be,  but  become  so  for  want  of  proper  care.  They  excel 
most  other  birds  in  their  good  qualities,  the  sweetness  of 
their  song,  which  continues  most  of  the  year,  except  the  time 
of  moulting,  when  they  are  generally  silent,  though  some  in 
spite  ,of  this  annual  illness  do  not  even  then  lose  their  song. 
Their  plumage  is  delicate  and  sometimes  beautiful,  which  is 
displayed  in  different  colors  most  commonly  in  a  bright  yel- 
low or  straw  color.  They  are  very  docile  and  will  learn  a 
variety  of  pleasing  little  tricks,  such  as  coming  at  the  call 
and  pronouncing  words  distinctly.  They  will  also  learn  airs 
and  keep  time  like  a  musician.  As  to  the  time  of  pairing,  it 
generally  commences  about  the  middle  or  latter  end  of 
March,  or  perhaps  a  better  criterion  would  be  when  the 
frosts  disappear,  and  the  Sun  sheds  an  enlivening  warmth. 
Put  the  pair  you  intend  to  match  into  a  small  cage,  and  al- 
though they  may  at  first  be  quarrelsome,  they  will  soon 
become  reconciled  which  will  be  known  by  their  feeding 
each  other,  billing,  etc.  Feed  them  at  the  time  with  the 
following.  Boil  an  egg  very  hard,  chop  and  grate  it  fine, 
add  bread  crumbled  equally  fine,  a  httle  maw  seed,  mix  this 
well,  and  give  them  a  tablespoonful  twice  a  day.  In  ten 
days  they  will  be  paired.  Place  the  cage  in  a  room  that 
enjoys  the  morning  sun,  and  not  where  it  shines  hot  in  the 
afternoon,  as  the  excessive  heat  will  produce  sickness,  breed 
mites,  etc.  Place  in  the  cage  a  little  hay  and  cows  hair,  the 
latter   after  serving   once,  may   be  washed  and   dried   for 


CANARY   BIRDS.  137 

future  use  in  building  nests.  The  nest  boxes  are  composed 
of  wicker,  or  wire  bottoms,  so  that  the  dust  falls  through, 
and  there  should  be  but  one  in  a  cage  at  a  time  or  until  the 
hen  has  hatched,  then  put  in  another  and  make  the  nest  for 
them  as  it  saves  them  much  fatigue,  if  it  does  not  please 
them  they  will  soon  adapt  it  to  their  fancy.  The  following 
food  must  be  given  when  they  have  young  :  Boil  an  egg  and 
grate  it — take  as  much  bread  as  the  size  of  an  egg  and  grate 
and  mix  well  together,  and  feed  them  a  spoonful  three  times 
a  day.  For  a  change  soak  a  piece  of  stale  sweet-bread  in 
water — squeeze  it  out  and  add  a  little  sweet  milk  and  feed 
them — also  give  them  a  little  cabbage  in  its  season.  This 
and  chickweed,  and  salad,  may  be  given  in  their  season  three 
times  a  day.  But  if  they  are  given  early  in  the  year  before 
the  bitterness  has  passed  away  they  are  hurtful.  The  hen 
sits  thirteen  but  more  generally  fourteen  days.  Clean  the 
perches,  fill  one  fountain  with  water  and  the  other  with  seed, 
so  that  they  shall  not  be  disturbed  for  two  or  three  days 
after  they  hatch.  When  your  young  ones  can  feed  them- 
selves, you  may  cage  them  off,  and  give  them  egg  and  bread 
as  before  stated,  with  a  little  maw  seed,  with  some  ground 
or  bruised  rape,  till  they  are  seven  weeks  old  ;  when  they 
will  be  able  to  crack  hard  seed  which  should  be  given  them 
before  that  time.  If  you  wish  to  make  one  very  tame  you 
can  bring  it  up  by  hand,  taking  it  from  the  old  ones  as  soon 
as  they  are  fledged,  or  feathered,  which  will  be  in  eleven  or 
twelve  days.  When  taken  from  the  hen,  it  should  be  placed 
in  a  warm  box,  and  placed  in  rather  a  dark  situation  to  make 
it  forget  the  old  ones. 

Sometimes  you  will  be  obhged  to  remove  them.  If  the 
hen  should  be  ill,  they  should  be  taken  from  her,  for  she  can- 
not feed  them  ;  and  when  she  leaves  them  to  the  care  of  the 
male  bird  or  if  she  plucks  the  feathers  from  her  young  they 
should  be  removed,  as  in  that  case  she  will  kill  them  in  two 
or  three  days. 

The  following  paste  may  be  given, -which  will  keep  good 
fifteen  days.     Bruise  in  a  mortar  or  on  a  table  with  a  rolling 


138  CANARY    BIRDS. 

pin  a  quart  of  rape  seed  in  such  a  manner,  that  you  can  blow 
the  chaff  away,  and  a  piece  of  bread,  reducing  them  to 
powder.  Put  it  in  a  dry  box  and  keep  it  from  tiie  sun. 
Give  a  teaspoonful  of  this,  and  a  little  hard  egg  grated  with 
a  few  drops  of  water.  This  will  become  unfit  for  them  after 
twenty  days,  as  then  it  will  be  sour.  It  may  be  given  with- 
out harm  to  the  old  birds  if  necessary,  but  it  must  be  given 
dry.  Or  if  preferred  you  may  give  for  the  first  three  days, 
grated  egg  and  sponge  biscuit  made  fine  and  mixed  with  a 
little  water  to  make  it  like  paste.  Then  add  a  small  quan- 
tity of  scalded  rape  seed,  as  then  they  are  strong  enough  to 
digest  it.  They  may  also  have  a  small  quantity  of  chick- 
weed  seed,  and  a  sweet  almond  peeled  and  chopped  fine. 
The  chickweed  may  be  given  twice  a  day  in  very  hot 
weather. 

Birds  brought  up  by  hand  require  to  be  fed  once  in  two 
hours.  To  feed  them,  sharpen  a  little  stick  of  wood  and  give 
them  at  each  feeding  four  or  five  mouthfuls,  or  until  they 
refuse  to  open  their  mouths  voluntarily.  At  a  month  old  you 
may  cease  feeding  them  with  a  stick,  as  they  will  then  begin 
to  feed  alone.  You  must  put  them  in  a  cage  without 
perches  fii'st  and  have  a  little  bird  seed  in  a  box  or  glass, 
and  in  about  seven  weeks  take  the  soft  food  by  degrees 
away,  and  leave  only  the  hard  seed.  It  will  be  well  occa- 
sionally to  give  a  little  bruised  hempseed  especialy  in  Vvinter. 
If  they  are  ill  when  young,  treat  them  as  follows.  Bruise 
some  hempseed  and  soak  it  a  little  in  woter,  then  squeeze  it 
through  a  cloth  which  forms  what  is  called  the  milk  of  hemp- 
seed. This  will  strengthen  and  nourish  young  birds  very 
much,  but  you  must  take  the  water  glass  away  when  you 
give  this  medicine. 


SCRAP. 

The  only  disturber  of  men,  of  families,  cities,  kingdoms, 
worlds,  is  sin ;  there  is  no  such  troubler,  no  such  traitor  to 
any  state,  as  the  wilfully  wicked  man  ;  no  such  enemy  to  the 
public  as  the  enemy  of  God. 


THREE    SCENES.  139 

Original. 

THREE    SCENES. 

I  SAW  them  before  the  altar.  Early  love  had  brought  its 
offering  to  be  presented  in  the  fulness  of  faith  and  the  fer- 
vency of  feeling.  The  vov^^s  were  soon  uttered,  the  tokens 
exchanged,  the  prayer  breathed,  and  the  solemn  union 
announced.  It  was  a  wedding-scene  of  deep  interest. 
First  of  all,  thoughts  clustered  around  the  altar,  and  I  rea- 
lized the  fitness  of  the  place  for  such  an  event.  If  the  altar 
be  the  memorial  of  divine  love  to  us,  what  better  spot  for 
the  pledge  of  our  affections  to  the  chosen  of  the  heart !  If 
we  owe  to  Christianity  the  sacredness  of  marriage-ties,  how 
proper,  that  amid  its  selectest  emblems,  we  should  unite  the 
hands,  that  are  henceforth  to  thrill  with  one  pulse ! 

I  saw  that  lovely  woman  trembling  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave.  She  was  far  away  in  the  South,  hoping  to  recover 
strength  amid  its  pleasant  Winter-scenes,  Her  husband  was 
soon  called  to  attend  her,  I  marked  her  failing  vigor,  and 
as  I  traced  the  progress  of  disease,  wept  that  sin  and  death 
should  be  united.  If  it  were  death  alone,  if  the  eye  closed 
and  the  brow  grew  cold  as  natural  occurrences,  it  would 
not  be  so  terrible.  But  sin  darkens  and  deepens  the  shadow. 
•  The  beautiful  light  expires  in  the  gloom  of  the  corse,  and 
the  farewell  words  die  in  the  groans  of  dissolution.  I  prayed 
with  the  sinking  sufferer.  There  were  low  whisperings  of 
hope  and  love,  that  had  gone  upward  and  anticipated  the 
promised  heritage.  There  were  simple  tokens  of  heart- 
resignation.  The  heavenly  priestess  prepared  the  last  sacri- 
fice, and  as  the  sacred  act  proceeded  and  the  incense  rose 
upward,  the  dying  one  raised  her  feeble  hand  and  dropped  a 
parting-gift  to  her  stricken  husband,  "  Open  it  when  you 
LAY  MR  IN  THE  Earth,"  wei'c  her  only  words.  It  was  the 
last  day  of  Winter  ;  with  it,  her  wintry-time  ended.  It  was 
the  day  before  the  Sabbath  ;  that  Sabbath  opened  the  history 
of  her  immortality. 


140  THREE    SCENES. 

I  saw  her  borne  to  the  grave.  The  last  ritual  performed. 
She  was  committed  to  its  guardianship.  The  stillness  of 
the  Sabbath  descended  on  the  scene,  and  the  sanctity  of  its 
blessing  seemed  to  hallow  it.  We  left  the  spot.  The 
mourner  and  myself  returned  home ;  and  there  beside  the 
couch,  where  she  died,  the  death-gift  was  examined.  It  was 
the  marriage-ring  with  these  words  in  her  hand- writing ; 

"  We  have  been  One  upon  Earth  ;  let  us  be  One  in 
Heaven  !" 

And  then  came  the  earnest  response  of  the  spirit — the 
choral  language  of  all  prayer  and  praise — "  Amen  !"  I  had 
often  heard  that  word.  I  had  heard  it  from  the  lips  of 
penitence  ;  I  had  heard  it  as  the  strain  of  triumph  ;  but  now 
it  came  to  my  heart,  with  a  higher  import,  for  it  sealed  a 
covenant  for  Eternity. 

The  bereaved  husband  entered  again  upon  the  duties  of 
life,  but  there  was  a  strange  feebleness  in  his  purposes,  and 
the  desolateness  of  his  bosom  seemed  to  be  spread  over 
every  thing.  Temptation  finally  succeeded  in  leading  him 
from  the  close  embrace  of  the  Cross.  Another  power  ac- 
quired the  control.  The  better  fellowship  was  forgotten  and 
meaner  companionships  encouraged.  Still  there  were 
moments  of  thoughtfulness.  Driven  from  every  other 
refuge — the  shrined  fulness  of  the  heart  denied  it — the 
throned  supremacy  of  conscience  destroyed — the  sentiments  , 
of  better  days  retired  to  memory,  always  lasts  to  yield  to  the 
tempter,  always  cherishing,  until  utterly  overthrown,  some 
germ  of  the  higher  life. 

The  solitary  man  was  called  away  from  home.  A  long 
journey  was  before  him.  Days  had  passed  and  nights  had 
succeeded  ;  the  brightness  of  the  one  bringing  no  joy,  the 
gloom  of  the  other  blending  with  sympathetic  sorrow. 

The  travel  had  nearly  ended.  Evening  shades,  resigning 
man  to  himself  and  bringing  nature  nearer  to  God,  closed 
around  him,  and  ♦the  weary  traveller  began  to  weep.  How 
often  are  tears  prophetic  !  How  frequently  the  heart  is  led 
into  some  converse,  of  which  the  intellect  takes  no  observa- 


THREE    SCENES.  141 

tion,  and  ere  it  is  aware,  startles  it  into  active  thought,  by 
the  quickened  blood  and  moistened  eye  !  Another  moment, 
and  a  low  voice  was  heard  singing  the  beautiful  lines — 

Soon  shall  we  meet  again. 

Meet  ne'er  to  sever ; 
Soon  will  peace  wreathe  her  chain. 

Round  us  forever ; 
Our  hearts  will  then  repose 
Secure  from  worldly  woes, 
Our  songs  of  praise  sheill  close 

Never,  no,  never ! 

And  as  they  echoed  among  the  forest  trees,  his  own  spirit 
seemed  to  struggle  to  take  up  the  tones  and  prolong  them. 
Then  came  the  outgushing  emotions.  Then  followed  the 
scene  after  the  burial  of  the  glorified  wife,  in  greater  vivid- 
ness. Feeling  had  responded  to  it  partially  before,  but  now 
the  touching  history,  look,  form  and  shape  amid  the  night- 
shadows,  and   the   love-motto  glowed   before   him, — "  We 

HAVE  BEEN  OnE  UPON  EaRTH  ;       LET  US  BE  OnE  IN    HeAVEN  !" 

The  estranged  heart  mourned  over  its  forgetfulness  and 
repented.  The  next  "  Amen"  was  not  only  answered  on 
Earth,  but  we  hope,  realized  by  the  mourner  in  Heaven. 

A.  A.  L. 


WILL    OF    GOD. 

It  is  the  strongest  and  most  binding  reason  that  can  be 
used  to  a  Christian  mind,  which  hath  resigned  itself  to  be 
governed  by  that  rule,  to  have  "  the  will  of  God  "  for  its  law. 
Whatsoever  is  required  of  it  upon  that  warrant,  it  cannot  re- 
fuse. Although  it  cross  a  man's  own  humor,  or  his  private 
interest,  yet  if  his  heart  be  subjected  to  the  will  of  God,  he 
will  not  stand  with  him  in  anything.  One  word  from  God, 
"I  will  have  it  so,"  silences  all,  and  carries  it  against  all 
opposition. 


142  THE  GRAVES  OP  THOSE  WE  LOVE. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  THOSE  WE  LOVE. 

BY    W.    IRVING. 

The  grave  is  the  ordeal  of  true  affection.  It  is  there  that 
the  divine  passion  of  the  soul  manifests  its  superiority  to  the 
instinctive  impulse  of  mere  animal  attachment.  The  latter 
must  be  continually  refreshed  and  kept  alive  by  the  presence 
of  its  object ;  but  the  love  that  is  seated  in  the  soul  can  live 
on  long  remembrance.  The  mere  inclinations  of  sense  lan- 
guish and  decline  vv^ith  the  charms  which  excited  them,  and 
turn  with  shuddering  and  disgust  from  the  dismal  precincts 
of  the  tomb ;  but  it  is  thence  that  truly  spiritual  affection 
rises  purified  from  every  sensual  desire,  and  returns,  like  a 
holy  flame,  to  illumine  and  sanctify  the  heart  of  the  survivor. 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead  is  the  only  sorrow  from  which 
we  refuse  to  be  divorced.  Every  other  wound  we  seek  to 
heal — every  other  affliction  to  forget ;  but  this  wound  we 
consider  it  a  duty  to  keep  open — this  affliction  we  cherish 
and  brood  over  in  solitude.  Where  is  the  mother  who  would 
willingly  forget  the  infant  that  perished  like  a  blossom  from 
her  arms,  though  every  recollection  is  a  pang  ?  Where  is  the 
child  that  would  willingly  forget  the  most  tender  of  parents, 
though  to  remember  be  but  to  lament  ?  Who,  even  in  the 
hour  of  agony,  would  forget  the  friend  over  whom  he 
mourns  ?  Who,  even  when  the  tomb  is  closing  upon  the 
remains  of  her  he  most  loved,  when  he  feels  his  heart,  as  it 
were,  crushed,  in  the  closing  of  its  portal ;  would  accept  of 
consolation  that  must  be  bought  by  forget  fulness  ? — No,  the 
love  which  survives  the  tomb  is  one  of  the  noblest  attributes 
of  the  soul.  If  it  has  woes,  it  has  likewise  its  delights  ;  and 
when  the  overwhelming  burst  of  grief  is  calmed  into  the 
gentle  tear  of  recollection — when  the  sudden  anguish  and 
the  convulsive  agony  over  the  present  ruins  of  all  that  we 
most  loved,  is  softened  away  into  pensive  meditation  on  all 
that  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  loveliness — who  would  root  out 


THE  GRAVES  OP  THOSE  WE  LOVE.  143 

such  a  sorrow  from  the  heart  ?  Though  it  may  sometimes 
throw  a  passing  cloud  over  the  bright  hour  of  gaiety,  or 
spread  a  deeper  sadness  over  the  hour  of  gloom  ;  yet  who 
would  exchange  it  even  for  the  song  of  pleasure,  or  the 
burst  of  revelry  ?  No,  there  is  a  voice  from  the  tomb 
isweeter  than  song.  There  is  a  remembrance  of  the  dead, 
to  which  we  turn  even  from  the  charms  of  the  living.  Oh, 
the  grave  ! — the  grave  ! — It  hurries  every  error — covers 
every  defect — extinguishes  every  resentment !  From  its 
peaceful  bosom  spring  none  but  fond  regrets  and  tender  rec- 
ollections. Who  can  look  down  upon  the  grave  even  of  an 
enemy,  and  not  feel  a  compunctious  throb,  that  he  should 
ever  have  warred  with  the  poor  handful  of  earth  that  lies 
mouldering  before  him  ? 

But  the  grave  of  those  we  loved — what  a  place  for  medi- 
tation !  There  it  is  that  we  call  up  in  long  review  the  whole 
history  of  virtue  and  gentleness,  and  the  thousand  endear- 
ments lavished  upon  us  almost  unheeded  in  the  daily  inter- 
course of  intimacy  ; — there  it  is  that  we  dwell  upon  the  ten- 
derness, the  solemn,  awful  tenderness  of  the  parting  scene. 
The  bed  of  death  !  with  all  its  stifled  gi-iefs  !  its  noiseless 
attendance  !  its  mute,  watchful  assiduities  !  The  last  testi- 
monies of  expiring  love  !  The  feeble,  fluttering,  thrilling, 
oh  !  how  thrilling  ! — pressure  of  the  hand  !  The  last  fond 
look  of  the  glazing  eye,  turning  upon  us  even  from  the 
threshold  of  existence  !  The  faint,  faltering  accents,  strug- 
gling in  death  to  give  one  more  assurance  of  affection  ! 

Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love  and  meditate  !  There 
settle  the  account  with  thy  conscience  for  every  past  benefit 
unrequited,  every  past  endearment  unregarded,  of  that  de- 
parted being,  who  can  never — never — never  return  to  be 
soothed  by  thy  contrition  ! 

If  thou  art  a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  a  sorrow  to  the 
soul,  or  a  furrow  to  the  silvered  brow  of  an  affectionate  pa- 
rant — if  thou  art  a  husband,  and  hast  ever  caused  the  fond 
bosom  that  ventured  its  whole  happiness  in  thy  arms,  to 
doubt  one  moment  of  thy  kindness  or  thy  truth — if  thou  art 


144  SUMMER    IS    GO\E. 

a  friend,  and  hast  ever  wronged,  in  thought,  or  word,  or 
deed,  the  spirit  that  generously  confided  in  thee — i£  thou  art 
a  lover,  and  hast  ever  given  one  unmerited  pang  to  that  true 
heart  which  now  lies  cold  and  still  beneath  thy  feet,  then  be 
sure  that  every  unkind  look,  every  ungracious  word,  every 
ungentle  action,  will  come  thronging  back  upon  thy  memory, 
and  knocking  dolefully  at  thy  soul — then  be  sure  that  thou 
wilt  lie  down  sorrowing  and  repentant  on  the  grave,  and 
utter  the  unheard  groan,  and  pour  the  unavailing  tear — more 
deep,  more  bitter,  because  unheard  and  unavailing. 

Then  weave  thy  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew  the  beauties 
of  nature  about  the  grave  ;  console  thy  broken  spirit,  if  thou 
canst,  with  these  tender,  yet  futile  tributes  of  regret ; — but 
take  warning  by  the  bitterness  of  this  thy  contrite  affliction 
over  the  dead,  and  henceforth  be  more  faithful  and  affection- 
ate in  the  discharge  of  thy  duties  to  the  living. 


SUMMER    IS   GONE. 

BT     H.     A.      B. 

Summer  is  gone,  the  fair  young  flowers 

Have  faded  in  their  bloom. 
And  the  music  of  the  fairy  bowers 

Is  hush'd  'mid  Autumn's  gloom. 

And  yet  the  trees  all  gloriously. 

Have  put  her  mantle  on— 
Of  gold  and  scarlet  gorgeously. 

Like  banners  proudly  borne. 

Oh  !  Autumn — thou'rt  beautiful. 
For  the  Frost-King  in  his  might — 

Hath  robed  the  Earth  all  fanciful 
With  hues  of  rosy  light. 

Our  Summer  life,  hath  Autumn  too, 

And  'mid  its  waning  bloom, 
We  wait  that  Spring,  whose  fadeless  hues 

E'er  glows  beyond  the  tomb. 


HINTS,    ETC.  145 

HINTS; 

TO    YOUNG    HOUSEWIVES   AND   DAUGHTERS. 

Excellence  is  providentially  placed  beyond  the  reach  of 
indolence,  that  success  may  be  the  reward  of  industry,  and 
that  idleness  may  be  punished  with  obscurity  and  disgrace. 

Training  the  mind.  A  sound  moral  discipline,  and  a 
well  regulated  mind,  can  under  God,  carry  a  man  through 
life  so  that  he  will  not  be  the  sport  and  victim  of  every 
change  that  flits  across  the  scene.  And  it  cannot  be  too 
anxiously  borne  in  mind,  that  this  great  attainment  is  in  a 
remarkable  degree  under  the  influence  of  habit. 

Every  day  that  passes,  and  every  step  that  we  take,  with- 
out making  it  the  object  of  earnest  attention,  renders  the  ac- 
quirement more  difficult  and  uncertain,  until  a  period  at 
length  arrives  when  no  power  exists  in  the  mind  capable  of 
correcting  the  disorder  which  habit  has  fixed.  The  frivo- 
lous mind  may  then  continue  frivolous  to  the  last,  amusing 
itself  with  trifles,  or  creating  for  itself  fictions  of  the  fancy, 
no  better  than  dreams.  The  distorted  mind  may  continue 
to  the  last  eagerly  pursuing  its  speculations,  departing  fur- 
ther from  the  truth ;  and  the  vitiated  mind  may  continue  to 
the  last,  the  slave  of  its  impure  and  degrading  passions. 
Such  is  the  power,  and  such  the  result  of  mental  habits. 
We  cannot  determine  how  many  acts  of  frivolity  may  con- 
stitute the  permanently  frivolous  mind ;  how  many  trains 
of  impure  thought,  may  constitute  the  corrupted  mind ;  or 
what  degrees  of  inattention  to  the  diligent  culture  of  the 
powers  within  may  be  fatal  to  our  best  interests.  In  early 
life,  aim  at  the  mastery  of  the  mind ;  give  earnest  attention 
to  the  trains  of  thought  encouraged,  as  habits  may  be  thus 
unconsciously  formed,  the  influence  of  which  may  be  per- 
manent and  irremediable,  and  peril  the  happiness  of  life  and 
the  immortal  interests  of  the  soul. 

Resolution.     There  is  nothing  in  man  so  potential  for 


146  HINTS,    ETC. 

weal  or  woe,  as  firmness  of  purpose.  Resolution  is  almost 
omnipotent.  Sheridan  was  at  first  timid,  and  was  obliged 
to  sit  down  in  the  midst  of  a  speech.  Confounded,  and  mor- 
tified at  the  cause  of  his  failure,  he  said  one  day  to  a  friend, 
"It  is  in  me,  and  it  shall  come  out."  From  that  moment,  he 
rose,  and  shone,  and  triumphed  in  consummate  eloquence. 
Here  was  true  moral  courage.  It  was  well  observed  by  a 
heathen  moralist,  that  it  is  not  because  things  are  difficult 
that  we  dare  not  undertake  them.  Be  then  bold  in  spirit. 
Indulge  no  doubts,  for  doubts  are  traitors.  In  the  practical 
pursuit  of  our  high  aim,  let  us  not  lose  sight  of  it  in  the 
slightest  instance;  for  it  is  more  by  a  disregard  of  small 
THINGS,  than  by  open  and  flagrant  offences  that  men  come 
short  of  excellence.  There  is  always  a  right  and  a  wrong, 
and  if  you  ever  doubt,  be  sure  you  take  not  the  wrong. 
Observe  this  rule,  and  every  experience  will  be  to  you  a 
means  of  advancement. 

Punctuality.  Method  is  the  very  hinge  of  business ; 
and  there  is  no  method  without  punctuality.  A  want  of  this 
virtue,  would  throw  the  whole  world  into  a  state  of  confu- 
sion and  disorder.  Punctuality  is  important,  because  it  is  not 
only  the  golden  chain  of  the  universe,  but  because  it  promotes 
the  peace,  order,  good  temper,  and  happiness  of  a  family. 
The  want  of  it,  not  only  infringes  on  necessary  duty,  but 
sometimes  excludes  it.  The  calmness  of  mind  which  it  pro- 
duces is  another  advantage  of  punctuality.  A  disorderly 
person  is  always  in  a  hurry,  and  has  no  time.  Punctuality 
gives  weight  to  character,  and  like  other  virtues,  it  propa- 
gates itself.  Servants  and  children  will  be  punctual  where 
their  leader  is  so. 

Patience.  As  the  bee  extracts  sweets  from  the  bitterest 
plants,  so  the  patient  and  resigned  spirit  derives  instruction 
and  even  happiness  from  the  severest  misfortunes  and  the 
sorest  trials. 

For  curing  beeif.  Six  pounds  of  Turk  Island  salt,  four 
pounds  sugar,  four  ounces  salt  petre.  Pack  as  close  as  pos- 
sible,— per  100  pounds  Beef. 


THE    FATAL    SECRET.  147 


THE  FATAL  SECRET. 


How  many  such  secrets  are  locked  up  in  the  minds  of 
those  who  move  about  from  day  to  day,  and  mingle  with  the 
crowd  in  the  busy  haunts  of  men : 

Many  years  since,  in  a  large  and  flourishing  village  that 
stood  on  the  banks  of  one  of  the  beautiful  Western  lakes, 
resided  a  merchant  of  high  standing,  and  great  influence. 
He  had  been  one  of  the  early  settlers  in  that  Western  world, 
and  was  supposed  to  possess  immense  wealth.  His  property 
had  been  acquired  by  persevering  toil,  and  unwearied  indus- 
try. And  still,  though  to  all  appearance  he  was  rolling  in 
affluence,  he  rose  early,  and  sat  up  late,  and  toiled  incessant- 
ly to  amass  earthly  treasure.  As  I  have  already  remarked, 
this  man  was  reputed  to  be  immensely  wealthy.  As  his 
pecuniary  means  increased,  he  extended  his  business.  This 
circumstance,  although  it  was  ultimately  the  cause  of  his 
ruin,  at  the  time  increased  public  confidence :  for  it  was  sup- 
posed that  one  so  prudent  and  calculating  as  he  would  run 
no  risk,  nor  engage  in  any  Quixotic  enterprise. 

So  high  did  he  stand  in  the  public  esteem,  as  a  man  of 
wealth,  and  incorruptible  probity,  that  the  more  prudent 
farmers  around  him,  who  had  small  sums  of  money  to  loan — 
widows  who  had  just  a  little  pittance  left  them  on  which  to 
subsist,  and  many  of  the  laboring  class  of  people,  who,  by 
their  industry  and  economy,  had  laid  aside  a  little  for  a  day 
of  future  want,  instead  of  depositing  their  money  in  the  bank, 
or  investing  it  in  stock,  put  it  into  his  hands  as  a  place  be- 
yond the  reach  of  accident.  Vast  sums  of  money  had  thus- 
been  committed  to  him  in  trust. 

But  all  this  time  he  was  a  bankrupt !  No  one  knew  it 
but  himself,  and  he  would  not  permit  himself  to  think  of  it 
for  a  single  moment.  It  was  a  painful  subject,  and  he  kept 
it  constantly  in  abeyance. 

Though  causes  were  at  work  which  must  infallibly  dis- 


148  THE    FATAL    SECRET. 

close  the  fatal  secret,  and  wrest  from  him  all  his  possessions, 
he  would  never  suffer  himself  to  dwell  upon  this  thought  a 
moment.  He  kept  on,  calmly  prosecuting  his  plans,  but 
steadily  averting  his  eye  from  events,  which  he  knew  must 
inevitably  involve  him  in  irrecoverable  disaster.  Had  he 
looked  the  danger  in  the  face,  and  been  willing  to  have  sur- 
rendered his  property  at  an  earlier  period,  he  might  have 
avoided  a  final  shipwreck.  But  from  the  commencement, 
the  subject  was  a  painful  one,  and  he  instinctively  shrunk 
from  examining  it.  His  wish  was  to  put  off  as  far  as  possi- 
ble the  evil  day,  hoping  that  some  happy  occurrence  in  the 
meantime  might  extricate  him  from  the  embarrassment  in 
which  he  was  involved.  But  this  was  absolutely  hoping 
against  hope.  Every  movement  he  made,  involved  him 
deeper  in  difficulty. 

The  vsridow  and  the  fatherless  still  came  to  him  to  deposit 
their  little  all  in  his  hands.  Though  conscience  stung  him, 
he  had  not  moral  courage,  or  moral  honesty  enough  to  tell 

them,  TO  KEEP  THEIR   MONEY,  FOR  THEY  WERE  CASTING    IT  INTO 

A  GREAT  MAELSTROM,  which  would  swallow  it  all  up,  and  they 
would  never  see  it  more. 

The  evil  day  at  length  came  !  His  house  fell,  and  great 
was  the  fall  of  it !  Himself  and  hundreds  of  others  were 
crushed  beneath  its  ruins  ;  and  all  this  because  he  was  not 
willing  to  meet  the  difficulty  in  its  incipient  stages — before 
it  was  forever  too  late. 

The  unconverted  sinner  is  acting  just  such  a  part.  He  is 
a  bankrupt.  He  owes  an  immense  debt  to  Jehovah,  and  has 
nothing  to  pay.  God  is  calling  him  to  a  settlement,  but  he 
turns  away  and  utterly  refuses  to  look  at  the  state  of  his 
affairs.  Though  he  knows  things  are  now  very  bad,  and 
are  growing  worse  and  worse  every  hour,  yet  he  turns  away 
his  thoughts  from  the  subject,  and  fixes  them  upon  something 
else.  Like  that  conscious  bankrupt,  he  puts  off  the  evil  day ! 
But  the  evil  day  will  come,  and  then  he  will  find  himself 
ruined  forever. 


■ital  W  K.i.l'ar.-i, 


Ziivvav-ei-T  "iJV  Al-'Jii 


^:ux  'W'lD  ^Wu 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  ENGLAND  AND 
THE  ENGLISH. 


BY      THE      EDITOR. 


Years  of  severe  and  uninterrupted  toil  and  the  consequent 
waste  of  nervous  energy  and  loss  of  health  induced  the  vi^riter 
to  try  the  benefit  of  a  tour  to  England.  We  took  passage 
in  the  noble  Packet,  the  Queen  of  the  West,  and  had  a 
pleasant  voyage.  The  great  ocean,  bounded  alone  by  the 
arching  heavens  is  a  sublime  object ;  and  when  no  storms 
arise  to  endanger  the  safety  of  the  frail  barque,  the  contem- 
plative mind  cannot  fail  to  see  much,  even  in  its  monotonous 
scenery  to  enhance  his  pleasure  and  exalt  his  conceptions 
of  the  Deity.  After  traversing  the  silent  waste,  meeting 
only  now  and  then  a  solitary  sail,  whose  heart  does  not  leap 
for  joy  on  coming  in  sight  of  land  and  beholding,  once  more, 
in  the  dim  and  distant  horizon,  the  marks  of  civilization  and 
the  homes  of  a  happy  people  ?  After  a  passage  of  twenty 
days,  wafted  by  gentle  breezes  and  fair  winds,  the  Queen  of 
the  West  was  safely  lodged  in  her  birth  at  Liverpool. 

We  will  not  venture  to  describe  our  i'eelings  at  first  setting 
foot  on  the  shores  of  England.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  the 
impression  made  on  our  minds  was  such  as  we  shall  love  to 
recall  in  all  their  original  brightness  in  future  years.  Although 
many  things  conspired  to  remind  us  that  we  were  among 
strangers,  yet  not  once  were  we  depressed  with  that  homeless 
feeling  of  which  some  have  so  sadly  complained  while 
sojourning  in  other  quarters  of  the  Globe.  If,  in  any  part  of 
the  old  world,  an  American  can  find  much  to  make  him 
forget  that  he  is  from  home  and  among  strangers,  it  is  in 

VOL.    VI,    NO.    5. 


164  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS. 

England,  the  land  of  his  ancestors,  whence  he  has  derived 
his  language,  and  those  noble  institutions  which  have  made 
his  country  the  seat  of  intelligence  and  piety. 

Liverpool  is  the  second  great  commercial  city  of  England, 
and  may  at  some  distant  period,  rival  the  metropolis  itself  in 
commercial  importance.  There  is  little  particularly  striking 
in  its  external  features,  to  distinguish  it  from  New  York  and 
other  American  cities,  except  its  magnificent  Docks  and  Ba- 
sins, compared  with  which  the  Docks  of  London,  are  an  in- 
considerable affair.  These  stupendous  works  of  Art  are  con- 
structed of  solid  masonry,  and  occupy  120  acres.  At  low 
water,  the  walls  constituting  the  quays  are  grand  objects  of 
artificial  structure.  The  solidity,  beauty  and  perfection  of 
the  masonry  present  a  striking  contrast  to  the  wooden, 
perishable  docks  and  wharves  of  our  American  Ports. 

From  Liverpool  we  proceeded  to  London.  The  distance 
is  212  miles  and  is  ordinarily  passed  over,  by  the  express 
trains  in  four  or  five  hours.  In  passing  through  almost  any 
part  of  England,  an  American  cannot  fail  to  be  impressed 
with  the  idea  that  he  is  in  the  old  world.  There  is  much  that 
is  antique  and  staid  looking ;  every  where  is  seen  the  foot 
prints  of  past  generations, — the  works  of  a  great  and  mighty 
people  who  have  carried  the  various  useful  arts  to 
high  perfection.  Every  thing  wears  the  appearance  of 
venerable,  yet  vigorous  old  age.  The  decayed  old  Towns 
the  quaint  forms  of  many  of  the  dwellings — the  arched, 
antique  gateways,  the  Gothic  structures,  the  time  honored 
sanctuaries  which  our  fore-fathers  left,  to  find  a  home  and  an 
altar  in  "the  depths  of  the  deserts  gloom" — the  ancient 
Castles,  once  the  abode  of  powerful  Barons,  now  forsaken 
and  frowning  in  ruin  ; — these  things  remind  us  that  we  have 
entered  the  time  hallowed  precincts  of  the  Old  World,  where 
the  monuments  of  by  gone  days  stand  thick  around  us ; 
every  where  the  ashes  of  past  generations  mingle  with  the 
soil  on  which  the  stranger  treads  and  bids  him  tread  softly 
as  one  who  sprung  from  a  portion  of  that  once  animated, 
dust. 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS.  155 

At  length,  the  object  of  our  cherished  desires  is  accompHsh- 
ed — we  are  in  London,  the  great  city! — the  world  in  miniature 
— the  pride  of  Earth  !  look  which  way  we  will,  the  scene 
surpasses,  immeasurably,  in  magnificence  and  beauty,  every 
idea  we  had  formed  of  the  most  renowned  cities  of  ancient 
or  modern  times.  We  tarried  here  but  a  few  weeks — in  that 
time,  the  vast  assemblage  of  grand  and  interesting  objects, 
the  numerous  monuments  of  past-ages  and  the  memorials  of 
individual  greatness  which  crowded  the  mighty  canvass 
presented  a  picture  of  sublimity  and  beauty  which  surpassed 
every  thing  my  imagination  had  yet  conceived.  The 
pleasure  we  enjoyed  in  contemplating  such  a  scene  makes  us 
desirous  that  the  younger  portion  of  our  readers  should, 
in  some  way,  participate  in  it.  A  few  hasty  sketches  is 
all  that  we  can  give  at  the  present  time. 

'London  may  be  considered, not  merely  as  the  Capital  of 
England  or  the  British  Empire,  but  as  the  Metropolis  of 
THE  World  ;  not  merely  as  the  abode  of  intelligence  and 
industry,  the  grand  centre  of  trade  and  commerce,  and 
the  resort  of  the  learned  of  every  nation,  but  as  being  with- 
out a  rival  in  every  means  of  aggrandizement  and  enjoy- 
ment, in  every  thing  that  can  render  life  sweet  and  man 
happy.  We  can  give  our  readers  no  adequate  idea  of  the 
extent  or  magnificence  of  London.  We  despair  even  of 
being  able  to  transcribe  our  own  impressions.  Within  a 
circumference,  the  radius  of  which  does  not  exceed  six 
miles,  there  are  never  probably  less  than  two  millions  of 
human  beings  ;  and  if  the  great  bell  of  St.  Paul  were  swung 
to  the  full  pitch  of  its  tocsin  sound,  more  ears  would  hear  it 
than  could,  the  loudest  roar  of  Etna  or  Vesuvius.  If  you 
were  to  take  your  station  in  the  ball  or  upper  gallery  of  that 
great  edific6,  the  wide  horizon,  surroundeid  as  it  is  with  men 
and  their  dwellings,  would  form  a  panorama  of  industry  and 
life  more  astonishing  than  could  be  seen  from  any  other 
point  in  the  universe.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  one  coming 
from  a  country  yet  in  its  infancy,  should  be  amazed  at  the 
extent  of  London,  its  magnificent  Palaces  and  Parks  and 


156  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS. 

warehouses  and  the  endless  details  of  convenience  and  com- 
fort, and  its  aggregate  of  untold  wealth  ? — How  natural  it  is 
to  conclude  the  City  is  the  work  of  ages ;  yes,  millions  of 
minds  and  hands  have  been  here  at  work  2000  years.  What 
may  not  New  York,  or  Cincinnati  become  in  that  space  of 
time? 

But  we  must  dismiss  London  for  the  present  and  conclude 
this  article,  by  alluding  to  a  topic  in  which  every  Englishman 
takes  a  peculiar  pride.  We  were  struck,  as  it  is  impossible  not 
to  be,  with  the  immense  popularity  of  the  Queex.  But  one 
feeling  seems  to  pervade  the  great  mass  of  the  British  Nation 
and  that  is  a  feeling  of  enthusiastic,  idolatrous  attachment  and 
devotion  to  Victoria. 

The  Dedication  of  Lincoln  Inns,  a  magnificent  edifice 
endowed  for  the  great  Barristers  of  London  presented  a  fine 
opportunity  for  the  manifestation  of  the  popular  feeling.  It 
was  known  that  the  Queen  and  members  of  the  Royal  family 
were  to  be  present.  All  London  seemed  in  motion.  Long 
before  the  time  the  Dedication  was  to  commence,  the  tide  of 
living  beings  began  to  flow  from  all  directions ;  the  gathering 
and  still  increasing  multitudes  seemed  like  the  unnumbered, 
waves  of  the  ocean  when  agitated  by  a  storm.  But  few, 
however  of  the  vast  crowds,  came  to  witness  the  Dedication. 
The  desire  of  seeing  the  Queen,  drew  them  together. 
Though  they  had  probably,  most  of  them  seen  her  at  difierent 
times,  their  curiosity  seemed  as  great  as  though  they  had 
seen  her  not.  We  tried  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her  majesty,  but 
IT  WAS  IMPOSSIBLE,  yet,  the  occasion  was  not  lost  to  us,  since, 
in  the  midst  of  this  mighty  confluence  of  Britons,  we  could,  in 
a  sense  see  and  feel  the  strong  pulsations  of  a  nation's  heart. 
Long  may  Victoria  live  to  bless  the  people  in  whose  hearts, 
as  well  as  over  whom  externally,  she  Reigns  a  Sovereign. 

To  be   Continued. 


THE    MAN    OF    SORROA\S,  157 


"THE    MAN    OF    SORROWS." 

BY      MISS      AIRD. 

"  Who  is  He  that  purple  wearing, 
All  the  taunts  of  malice  bearing — 

Silent  'nealh  the  mocker's  scorn ; 
As  a  lamb  to  slaughter  leading, 
Bound  and  wounded,  faint  and  bleeding, 

Pale  and  weary — sorrow- worn ; 
Scourged  and  smitten,  uncomplaining, 
Dust  and  gore  his  garments  staining — 

See  !  they  pierce  with  thorns  his  brow ; 
Fainting  'neath  the  cross  now  bending. 
Tears  with  Salem's  daughters  blending ." 

"  Son  of  Man !  'tis  Thou !  'tis  Thou  ?" 


Hark !  he  prays,  while  agonizing. 
For  the  murderers  who  despise  him  ! 

Sinners  !  whence  that  anguished  cry  ? 
"  Sore  reproach  my  heart  is  breaking. 
My  God  !  My  God  !  hast  thou  forsalyen 

Thy  beloved — why  ?  oh !  why .'" 
Sin  alone  could  thus  accuse  him, 
Though  it  pleased  the  Lord  to  bruise  him. 

All  oHr  sins  were  on  him  laid  ; 
For  transgression  was  he  stricken, 
For  "  the  sheep  the  Shepherd  smitten" — 

Thas  the  fall  atonement  made. 

"It  is  finished  r'  hear  him  crj'ing — 
Meekly  bows  his  head,  and  dying, — 

Thus  he  justice  satisfies ; 
With  his  blood  each  promise  sealing. 
Wondrous  Jove  to  man  revealing, 

God  his  covenant  r-atifies, 
Trembling  nature  quails  in  thunder, — 
Heaven,  ashamed,  grows  black  with  wonder; 

See  !  the  sun  hath  veiled  his  face  ! 
Hear  the  awe-struck  heathen  crving, 

*♦♦ 


158  THE    MA^    OF    SORROWS, 

"  Is  the  God  of  nature  dying?" 
Hath  the  Eternal  left  his  plaice  ? 


Arch  apostate  •  though  you  slay  him, 
In  the  dust  of  death  you  lay  him. 

Thou  hast  bruised  his  heel  at  length ! 
See  his  garments !  O  !  how  glorious  ! 
Travelling  in  his  might  victorious — 

Edom !  He  hath  spoiled  thy  strength. 
Father— God  !  oh  !  what  could  move  him» 
"  Sons  of  Axlam"  thus  to  love  them. 

Thus  to  give  tiue  son  to  death  ? 
'Tis  his  will,  and  thou  hast  done  it. 
Take  "  the  kingdom,  thou  has  won  it, —  ' 

Even  so,"  the  Father  saith. 

Salem  I  see  thy  waning  glory, — 
Clouds  of  doom  are  gathering  o'er  thee — 

Now  thy  fallen  shrine  grows  dark  ; 
Stars  on  Zion-hill  declining. 
Tell  the  promised  S'un  is  shining  !" 

Hark  !  they  echo — "we  depart !" 
See,  the  Temple  veil  is  rending ! 
See,  the  rising  God  ascending ! 
•  "  King  of  glory  enter  in." 
Thou  the  gates  of  brass  hast  riven. 
Paved  a  way  from  earth  to  heaven — 

Pardon's  won  for  darkest  sin. 

To  the  inner  shrine  returning, 
With  unceasing  incense  burning. 

Blood-bought  mercj-  to  proclaim ; 
Lift  the  sceptre,  reign  for  ever — 
Worthy  is  the  Lamb  for  ever — 

Worthy  is  the  Lamb  once  slain. 
Sacrifice,  by  God  appointed. 
Rich  with  gifts  for  men  anointed, 

Shadows  melt  in  perfect  day  ; 
Prophet,  Priest,  and  Mediator, 
Man-Redeemer,  God,  Creator — 

Aaron,  cast  thy  robes  away. 


FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS.  159 

••  Original 

FASHIONABLE  AMUSEMENTS.* 

BY    MRS.    S.    C.    m'cABE. 

A  few  days  afterward — a  long  and  mournful  procession 
were  seen  moving  with  "  solemn  steps  and  slow,"  toward  the 
cemetary  of  the  dead.  That  evening  it  was  rumored  through 
the  spacious  Assembly  rooms  in  H street,  by  the  vo- 
taries of  fashionable  life — that  the  once  beautiful  and  fasci- 
nating Miss  K— — .  had  been  bourne  to  her  last  and  lonely 

DWELLING. 

It  is  far  from  pleasant  to  give  such  gloomy  coloring  to  a 
sketch  from  real  life.  And  it  is  truth  stranger  than  fiction, 
that  such  instances  occur  of  defective  and  injudicious  train- 
ing so  melancholy  in  their  results. 

Is  it  true  that  nothing  can  neutralize  a  Mother's  love  ? 
that  when  every  elevating  principle  is  darkened  and  defaced 
by  actual  crime,  still  wnth  the  mother — "  my  child"  is  but 
another  name  for  "self." 

With  views  extending  to  the  judgement,  how  can  we  re- 
concile this  depth  of  affection,  with  that  example  which  leads 
the  budding  faculties  of  the  young  and  ardent  mind  to  regard 
the  attractive  beau-monde  as  the  summumbonum  ? 

To  the  honor  of  humanity  it  can  be  spoken — that  the 
adornments  of  the  christian  character  may  be  found  in 
all  the  walks  of  life  ;  those  who  are  good  for  the  sake 
of  goodness — who  reflect  sunshine  upon  the  adverse  clouds 
that  leather  over  life's  prospects,  while  firm  in  their  allegiance 
to  high  and  holy  principles,  and  '•  choose  rather  to  suffer 
affliction  with  the  people  of  God,  than  to  enjoy  the  pleasures 
of  sin  for  a  season."     At  the  same  time  we  can  cross  the 

♦Concluded    from    page    129. 


160  FASHIONABLE    AMITSEMENTS. 

vestibule  of  the  church,  and  find  persons  who  enter  the 
Saloon  of  fashionable  pleasure,  with  more  animation,  and  a 
deeper  interest,  than  they  enter  the  praying  circle  or  the 
sanctuary  of  God.  Is  not  an  attachment  to  any  evangelical 
branch  of  the  church,  a  virtual  renouncement  of  the  "  pomps 
and  vanities"  of  the  world  ?  and  can  any  thus  pledged, 
attend  the  dancing  party,  visit  the  theatre — play  cards  etc., 
—regarding  these  amusements  innocent,  and  such  a  course 
of  conduct,  in  no  wise  reprehensible?  Reader  are  you 
of  this  opinion  ?  dwell  for  a  moment  upon  the  history  of 

Hellen  K ,  and  ask  yourself  what  it  was  that  planted 

her  dying  pillow  thick  with  thorns  ?  what  but  an  intense 
devotion  to  fashionable  amusements ;  being  a  "  lover  of 
pleasure  more  than  a  lover  of  God." 

Is  it  not  a  plain  positive  injunction,  "  abstain  from  all 
appearance  of  evil  ?"  and  where  is  the  evil  in  such  amuse- 
ments ?  Did  you  ever  return  at  the  morning  hour,  from 
the  dancing  coterie  with  conscience  for  an  approver  ? 
Did  you  ever  trim  the  lamps  till  the  noon  of  night,  in  por- 
ing over  works  of  fiction,  per-chance  the  last  by  Bulwer 
or  some  of  the  French  school,  without  realizing  in  some 
degree  the  evil  effects  of  such  reading  upon  the  mind  and 
heart?  impairing  the  moral  sense,  and  weakening  the  no- 
blest springs  of  action.  In  addition  to  this — on  those  who 
stand  upon  the  high  ground  of  Christian  profession,  the 
eye  of  the  world  is  fixed  either  for  good  or  evil ;  while 
their  influence  upon  those  with  whom  they  stand  con- 
nected and  associated,  is  as  it  were,  an  indellible  signet  for 
WEAL  or  wo.  Hence,  if  those  who  have  long  been  mem- 
bers of  the  church,  can  participate  in  these  amusements, 
feeling  no  condemnation,  those  who  have  more  recently 
commenced  a  religious  course  will  be  induced  from  their 
example,  to  lay  their  offerings  upon  the  same  altar,  to  rfieet 
and  mingle  with  the  world  in  pursuit  of  pleasures,  which  to 
their  cost,  they  find  but  receding  phantoms,  while  the  ene- 
mies of  religion  are  left  to  exult  and  triumph  !  Is  this  in 
keeping  with  the  requisitions  of  the  Gospel  ?    is  it  letting 


FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS.  161 

our  "  light  shine  ?"  "  coming  out  from  the  world  ?  taking 
up  the  cross?  bearing  the  reproach  of  Christ?"  Our  con- 
sciences will  give  the  response ;  if  not  before — when  our 
heads  shall  press  a  dying  pillow,  and  these  hearts  are 
throbbing  with  the  last  pulsations  of  life. 

It  may  be,  some  of  my  readers  have  never  considered 
this  subject  in  relation  to  its  connected  influences,  and  are 
really  of  the  opinion  that  playing  cards  by  one's  own  fire- 
side is  a  harmless  diversion. 

You  already  know  my  dear  reader  how  much  depends 
upon  parental  example,  and  the  profound  meaning  there 
is  expressed  in  that  one  word  mother. 

'Tis  possible,  at  some  future  period  a  son  may  enter  the 
busy  world  to  brave  for  himself  its  stormy  deeps  ;  a  mother's 
prayers  may  follow  him.  He  looks  out  upon  life  with  high 
expectations  of  a  blissful  future.  At  every  turning  point  in 
his  course  he  meets  with  new  attractions — until  he  is  ready 
to  exclaim  '  this  world  of  ours,  is  a  bright  and  joyous  world,  a 
garden  of  enchantment.'  He  courts  the  society  of  the  gay  : 
enters  the  circles  of  fashion  and  beauty.  Cards  are  in- 
troduced— his  first  impression  is,  to  resist  the  temptation: 
but  no  !  he  remembers  that  his  mother,  his  own  dear  mother, 
a  professor  of  religion,  does  not  consider  it  dangerous  or 
tending  to  evil — to  play  only  for  amusement  I  The  spell  is 
broken,  he  becomes  one  of  the  number,  charmed,  and  chained 
as  it  were,  he  plays  night  after  night,  for  mere  pastime, 
then  for  a  small  amount,  then  for  a  larger  sum.  The  wine- 
cup  sparkles  on  the  boards  he  approaches — he  drinks  !  and 
thus  he  is  led  on  step  by  step  in  a  descending  scale  until  he 
feels  no  disposition  to  retract;  whereas  with  a  difiereiit  and 
more  decided  example  of  moral  right  from  that  mother,  that 
son  might  have  become  an  honorable  and  useful  member  of 
community — perhaps  a  flaming  herald  of  the  cross,  instru- 
mental in  the  conversion  of  hundreds,  the  joy  and  support  of 
hearts  now  sad  and  desolate.  This  is  no  picture  of  fancy, 
such  things  have  been,  such  things  may  be — and  with  this 
view   of  the  subject,  not  to  refer  to  other  very  important 


162  FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS. 

considerations,  can  it  be  conscientiously  affirmed  that  there 
is  nothing  wrong  in  playing  cards  for  amusement.  We 
might  cite  from  the  pious  and  the  learned  of  this  our  day 
and  generations  past — but  we  only  make  one  or  two  quota- 
tions, from  a  letter  of  ad'vice,  by  the  great  and  good  Leigh 
Richmond,  to  his  daughters. 

Under  the  head  of  amusements,  he  mentions  "  plays,  balls; 
cards,  private  dances  etc."  He  then  observes  serious  con- 
sistent christians  must  be  against  these  things,  because 
the  dangerous  spirit  of  the  world  and  the  flesh  is  in  them  all. 
They  are  the  "  pomps  and  vanities  of  this  wicked  world,"  so 
solemnly  renounced  at  baptism.  To  be  conformed  to  these 
seductive  and  more  than  frivolous  scenes,  is  to  be  conformed 
to  this  world,  or  to  be  opposed  to  the  character  and  precepts 
of  Christ.  They  that  see  no  harm  in  these  things  are 
spiritually  blind,  and  they  who  will  not  hear  admonition 
against  them  are  spiritually  deaf.  Shun  then  my  daughters 
the  pleasures  of  sin,  and  seek  those  which  are  at  God's  right 
hand  forever  more.     You  cannot  love  both. 

Reader,  you  and  I  are  one  of  difierent,  and  it  may  be 
distant  family  circles.  It  must  needs  be,  the  cords  are 
strong  that  bind  us  to  some  house-hold  band.  Are  we 
"lovers  of  pleasure?"  let  us  seek  henceforth  to  be'" lovers 
of  God."  That  in  those  seasons  of  trial,  to  which  all  are 
subject,  the  severance  of  life's  dearest  ties,  the  consignment 
of  our  comforts  to  the  dust,  we  may  know  by  blessed  ex- 
perience, how  firmly  sustained  is  the  spirit  that  leans  upon 
Him  :  that  when  these  eves  shall  fix  their  last  dim  gaze 
upon  all  below — and  we  ourselves  pass  to  a  disembodied 
state,  we  may  carry  with  us  the  animating  assurance,  that 
through  the  mediation  of  our  gracious  Savior — the  boon 
of  immortality   to   us  will   be — the  Everlasting  Gift   of 

UNSULLIED  fruition. 


CANARY    BIRDS SICKNESS.  16S 


CANARY   BIRDS  — SICKNESS. 

Outward  signs  are  absolutely  necessary  to  judge  of  their 
diseases,  and  when  ill  they  exhibit  strong  symptoms.  The 
first  spoken  of,  is  the  swelling  of  the  stomach,  which  attacks 
them  at  a  month  or  six  weeks  old,  in  consequence  of  over 
feedinjx  on  soft  food  such  as  salad  and  chickweed.  The 
extremity  of  the  body  becomes  swollen^  of  a  dark  red  colour, 
and  very  hard,  full  of  small  red  veins.  For  this,  put  in  a 
small  piece  of  alum  in  the  water  and  renew  it  every  day,  for 
three  or  four  days  at  least.  This  will  frequently  be  found  to 
answer.  Another  remedy  is  to  put  a  rusty  nail  into  the 
water,  which  should  be  changed  twice  a  week  leaving  the 
nail  in  it.  Boiled  bread  and  milk  wath  canary  seed  boiled  in 
it,  is  sometimes  effectual.  Put  it  inside  the  cage  for  five  or 
six  mornings  and  at  twelve  o'clock  you  may  give  the  usual 
food.  Another  remedy  is,  to  put  the  bird  in  lukewarm  milk 
for  six  or  eight  minutes  that  a  portion  of  it  may  be  absorbed 
by  the  pores,  then  put  him  in  warm  Spring  water,  after 
which  wipe  him  with  a  soft  muslin  before  the  fire  until  dry. 
Then  put  him  in  his  cage  and  place  it  before  the  fire  a  short 
distance  or  in  the  hot  sun  in  the  room.  After  putting  him  in 
his  place  giving  him  lettuce  seed  and  letting  him  rest  the 
next  day,  repeat  this  on  the  third  day,  and  if  necessary  three 
or  four  times  with  the  interval  of  a  day  each  time — as  much 
for  the  repose  of  the  bird  as  for  the  remedy  to  operate. 
This  gives  relief  if  faithfully  applied. 

The  moult  or  renewal  of  the  feathers,  is  also  a  dangerous 
time,  it  occasions  sometimes  death.  Vei*y  few  die  if  the  au- 
tumn is  fine,  and  temperate.  It  generally  •attacks  young 
birds  when  about  six  weeks  old,  and  lasts  two  months. 
They  appear  melancholy  and  often  sleep  in  the  day  with 
their  head  under  their  wing.  The  cage  will  be  full  -of  small 
feathers  as  young  birds  do  not  cast  the  wing  or  tail  feathers 
the  first  year,  but  the  second  they  moult  throughout.     At 


164  CANARY    BIRDS SICKNESS. 

this  time  they  eat  but  little  and  only  such  as  they  like  best, 
they  require  a  variety  of  nourishing  food  and  require  to  be 
'kept  warm.  The  least  cold  at  this  time  will  prove  fataL 
If  tl.'-v  are  bad  you  may  giv-e  them  a  piece  of  sponge  cake 
or  biscuit  soaked  in  white  wine ;  sherry  is  best,  if  they  eat 
this  it  will  do  thena  much  good,  and  it  is  good  to  sprinkle 
a  little  over  them  and  place  them  before  the  fire.  A  little 
refined  hquorice  in  the  water  is  good.  A  few  grits  makes 
them  cast  their  feathers  while  moulting.  If  they  should 
have  a  small  pimple  on  the  .extremity  of  the  body  and 
•appear  rather  dull,  cut  off  the  top  of  it  with  a  pair  of  scissors 
and  put  on  a  little  salt  and  sugar,  and  if  the  pimple  is  not 
well  formed  put  on  sweet  oil. 

They  sometimes  have  red  mites  if  the  cage  is  not  kept 
clean.  It  may  be  discovered  by  their  frequent  plucking  and 
feathering  themselves.  But  it  may  be  avoided  by  cleaning 
the  cage  twice  a  week. 

Canaries  are  subject  to  other  diseases,  which  may  be 
cured  without  much  trouble.  If  they  are  attacked  with 
diarrhea,  pull  a  few  feathers  out  of  the  tail,  and  rub  on  the 
oil  of  sweet  almonds  on  the  lower  part  of  the  body.  Give 
them  hard  yolk  of  egg,  grated  sponge  cake,  scalded  lettuce, 
and  melon  seed,  for  food. 

If  they  throw  their  seed  about  the  cage  without  eating,  it 
is  an  indication  that  they  need  purging.  Give  them  rape 
seed  with  a  lettuce  leaf  or  a  little  chickweed  seed  which 
will  soon  relieve. 

When  paired,  the  hen  is  soTnetimes  "eggbound,"  and  falls 
off  the  perch  on  her  back,  and  if  not  helped  dies.  For  this 
take  her  out  of  the  cage  and  rub  on  the  oil  of  sweet  almonds 
gently  on  the  lower  part  of  the  body,  w^hich  enables  them  to 
discharge  the  egg.  A  piece  of  mortar  laid  in  the  cage  will 
also  relieve.  This  should  be  kept  in,  to  prevent  this  diffi- 
culty. 

If  they  break  a  leg  take  out  the  perches  and  put  soft  hay 
at  the  bottom  of  the  cage,  also  their  food.  Their  cage 
should  be  covered  that  they  may  not  be  disturbed.  , 


LADY    JANE    GREY,  165 

LADY    JANE    GREY. 

BY      THE      EDITOR. 
With   a   Steel  Engraving. 

The  love  of  power  is  the  ruling  passion  of  men.  The 
possession  of  a  crown  and  a  kingdom,  by  means  of  which 
this  passion  is  gratified  to  its  fullest  extent,  is  hence  con- 
sidered the  highest  object  of  human  ambition.  Men  have 
sought  to  possess  themselves  of  this  dazzling  prize,  by  in- 
trigue and  falsehood,  by  promises  and  threats,  by  flattery^ 
violence  and  murder.  Through  years  of  toil  and  mortifica- 
tion, through  the  blood  of  friends  and  foes,  they  have  at  length 
reached  the  dizzy,  dangerous  height,  whei'^,  after  all  their 
sacrifices  and  sufferings,  they  could  find  no  firm  footing,  no 
permanent  rest.  In  the  words  of  Senaca,  they  "  compass  with 
great  labor  what  they  possess  with  greater,  and  hold  with 
anxiety  what  they  acquire  with  trouble.'*  Who  would  covet 
the  glory  of  Napoleon  Le  Grande  at  the  price  he  paid  for  it? 
Who  that  is  in  easy  circumstances  and  feels  secure  as  mortal 
can  in  the  enjoyment  of  life,  would  wish  to  exchange  situa- 
tions with  Louis  Phillipe,  who  can  scarcely  leave  his  Palace 
and  appear  in  public,  without  the  fear  of  assassination  ?  The 
fears,  the  cares  and  troubles,  the  envy,  hatred  and  malice  to 
which  monarchs  are  ordinarily  exposed,  and  which  render 
their  position  so  precarious,  teach  us  how  little  there  is  to 
envy  and  covet  in  their  lot,  and  how  worthlesss  those  honors 
are  which  are  balanced  against  such  trials. 

The  lot  of  empire  has  more  frequently  fallen  to  the  fool  than 
the  wise  man.  What  a  pitiful  sight  it  is  to  see  a  poor  frail 
creature  whom  birth  or  accident  has  raised  to  empire,  vainly 
boasting  of  his  strength  and  resources,  as  though  he  origi- 
nated all  the  great  movements  around  him  ;  like  "  the  fly 
which  sat  upon  the  axle-tree  of  the  chariot-wheel,  and  said, 
*What   a  dust  do   I   raise!'" — Some,  guided   by  superior 


166  LADY    JANE    GRET. 

strength  and  wisdom,  and  aided  by  surrounding  circumstan- 
ces and  a  propitious  providence,  have  long  held  the  reins 
of  power;  instance  Elizabeth  of  England,  Mariah  Theresa 
of  Austria,  George  III  and  Lewis  XIV.  While  others  have 
scarce  had  the  crown  placed  on  their  heads  ere  they  have 
been  precipitated  from  the  proud  height.  We  are  presented 
with  a  most  affecting  example  of  such  inconstancy  m  human 
affairs  in  the  case  of  Lady  Jane  Grey,  whose  virtues  shone 
with  resplendant  lustre  in  the  midst  of  the  greatest  trials. 

The  story  of  this  illustrious  person  is  brief,  but  touching. 
The  picture  of  the  amiable  sufferer  has  often  been  drawn, 
but  it  has  lost  none  of  hs  attractions.  It  is  no  picture  of 
romance  which  owes  its  charms  to  the  magic  power  of  fic- 
tion, and  the  soft  and  delicate  pencil  ings  of  a  refined  and 
chaste  imagination,  but  it  is  the  beautiful  embodiment  of  truth 
and  virtue,  the  perfect  reflection  of  a  mind  all  pure  and 
glowing  with  intelligence.  History  no  where  presents  us 
with  a  more  faultless  character. 

Lady  Jane  Grey  was  born  in  the  year  1537.  Her  mother 
Frances  Grey,  the  Dutchess  of  Suffolk,  was  the  grand-daugh- 
ter of  Henry  7th.  Being  of  the  Blood  Royal,  the  Dutchess 
of  Suffolk  had  been  nominated  in  the  will  of  Henry  VIII, 
next  to  his  two  daughters  Mary  and  Elizabeth,  to  succeed 
to  the  crown.  Her  eldest  daughter,  the  Lady  Jane,  whom 
King  Edward  highly  esteemed  for  her  piety  and  learning, 
had  been  married  to  Lord  Guildford  Dudley,  one  of  the 
sons  of  the  Duke  of  Northumberland.  This  union  was 
brought  about  by  the  intriguing  and  ambitious  old  Duke,  to 
mount  the  Northumberland  Family  on  the  throne  of  Eng- 
land. And  now  as  Edward's  health  was  rapidly  failing  and 
he  was  supposed  to  be  near  his  end,  the  Duke,  under  the 
pretence  of  zeal  for  the  True  Religion,  and  the  fear  of  its 
subversion  in  case  Mary,  a  resplute  bigoted  Papist,  should 
succeed  to  the  crown,  persuaded  that  excellent  Prince,  to 
settle  by  letters  patent  the  succession  on  Lady  Jane. 

But  the  Lady  Jane  had  no  thirst  for  Royalty ;  her  ambi- 
tion was  of  a  nobler  and   purer  kind.     Had  she  been  of 


LADY    JANE    GREY.  167 

the  number  of  those  who  are  captivated  only  with  the  objects 
of  sight  and  sense,  Earth  could  have  presented  to  her  young 
imagination  no  more  dazzling  and  attractive  object  than 
was  now  offered  to  her.  But  in  her  the  sensual  had  given 
place  to  the  spiritual,  the  ideal  to  the  real,  and  things  seen 
to  those  that  are  unseen.  The  heart  which  had  been  won 
by  Heaven,  could  not  be  made  to  coalesce  in  schemes  of 
earthly  aggrandizement.  From  childhood,  the  active  and 
vigorous  mind  of  the  Lady  Jane  had  been  ever  on  the  stretch 
in  the  sublime  pursuit  of  knowledge  and  virtue.  She  had 
been  educated  with  King  Edward,  and  it  is  thought  sur- 
passed him  in  the  measure  of  her  attainments.  To  the 
knowledge  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  languages,  she  added 
that  of  several  modern  tongues.  The  usual  employments 
and  amusements  of  her  sex  had  in  them  little  to  interest  a 
mind  so  assiduously  and  steadily  engaged  in  mental  exercises, 
and  so  sublimated  by  sober  thought  and  pious  asperations. 
On  a  visit. which  Roger  Ascham,  the  tutor  of  Elizabeth,  paid 
to  Lady  Jane,  he  found  her  reading  Plato,  while  the  rest  of 
the  family  were  engaged  in  the  sports  of  'the  field.  In 
speaking  of  the  ladies  of  rank,  who  were  distinguished  for 
their  scholarship  in  that  age,  Ascham  remarks  that  Mildred, 
the  wife  of  Lord  Burleigh,  was  the  best  Greek  scholar  in 
England,  with  the  exception  of  Lady  Jane  Grey.  A  mind 
so  completely  absorbed  in  literary  pursuits,  and  so  devoted 
to  her  noble  young  husband,  could  have  but  little  room  for 
the  entertainment  of  ambitious  views  and  projects. 

Such  was  the  being  whom  Northumberland  proposed  to 
use  as  the  instrument  of  setting  aside  the  claims  of  the  right-, 
ful  heirs  to  the  crown,  and  securing  it  in  his  own  family. 
Lady  Janes'  youth  and  inexperience  should  have  exempted 
her  from  the  exorbitant  demands  of  pride,  and  prevented  her 
from  being  placed  in  the  (alse  position  of  a  rival  claimant 
without  the  shadow  of  a  title.  In  the  desperate  game  the 
unprincipled  Northumberland  was  playing  for  empire,  he 
disregarded  alike  the  claims  of  Justice  and  mercy,  and  was 
reckless  of  his  own  as  of  the  safety  of  his  friends.     Edward 


168  LADY    JANE    GREY. 

died  on  the  6th  of  July.  On  the  9th  the  Duke  of  Northum- 
berland with  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  announced  to  the  Lady 
Jane  the  high  honor  to  which  she  was  heir  by  the  demise  of 
the  King.  At  first  she  firmly  refused  the  crown.  But  who 
can  resist  the  pressing  and  earnest  entreaties  of  dearly  loved 
and  venerated  relatives  ?  This  could  scarcely  be  expected 
from  one  so  young  and  so  little  conversant  with  political  af- 
fairs as  Lady  Jane.  .How  could  she  resist  the  strong  united 
solicitations  of  her  husband,  father  and  father-in-law,  espec- 
ially when  assured  the  succession  had  been  settled  by  the 
highest  authorities  of  the  kingdom,  and  all  things  had  been 
done  according  to  law  ?  At  length  she  yielded  to  their 
united  importunities,  and  the  following  day  was  pro- 
claimed Queen,  having  previously  withdrawn  to  the  Tower 
accompanied  by  the  council. 

Although  the  people  had  an  exalted  opinion  of  Lady  Jane 
on  account  of  her  great  piety  and  learning,  yet  regarding 
her  pretensions  to  the  crown  as  utterly  untenable,  they 
generally  sided  with  Mary.  Lady  Jane  prized  the  crown 
too  little  to  make  any  strenuous  efforts  to  retain  it,  and 
she  cheerfully  acquiesced  in  the  Justice  of  the  Nation's  decis- 
ion as  soon  as  made  known.  An  ineffectual  effort  w'as  made 
to  counteract  the  force  and  change  the  course  of  popular  sen- 
timent Mary  appealed  to  the  justice  and  magnanimity  of  the 
Nation  and  every  where  met  with  a  favorable  response ;  par- 
ticularly a  laz-ge  body  of  Suffolk  men,  all  Protestants,  rallied 
round   her,  to  whom  she  solemnly  vowed  that  she  would 

NEVER  ALTER  THE  RELIGION  THAT  HAD  BEEN  SET  UP  IN  HER 
brother's  days  and  was  THEN  ESTABLISEED  BY  LAW,  BUT 
CONTENT  HERSELF  WITH  PRIVATE  ExERCISE  OF  HER  ReLIGION. 

The  Duke  of  Northumberland  made  a  desperate  effort  to 
quell  the  spirit  of  revolt,  but  the  hatred  the  people  bore 
to  him,  and  their  knowledge  qf  his  ambitious  designs,  left 
him  but  small  hope  of  success.  He  advanced  as  far  as 
Cambridge  with  some  forces,  but  there,  being  informed  thai 
the  majority  of  the  council  and  the  Mayor  of  London  had 
proclaimed  Mary  Queen,  he  followed  their  example,  flinging 


CORNUS  CANADENSIS. 
rRADKSCANTIA     VIRGINICA, 


"a 


LADY    JANE   GREY.  169 

up  his  cap  and  crying  with  the  loudest  of  the  rabble,  "  God 
Save  Queen  Mary  !"  By  this  act  of  cringing  hypocrisy  the 
crest  fallen  Duke  probably  hoped  to  lay  the  fierce  storm  he 
had  raised.  Vain  hope  !  He  was  immediately  apprehended 
and  sent  to  the  Tower,  which  he  found  the  Lady  Jane 
occupying  as  a  Prison,  which  but  the  other  day  was  her 
Palace.  On  the  18th  of  August,  the  Duke  was  tried  and 
condemned,  and  on  the  22d  executed  ;  he  died  unpitied  and 
unlamented.  On  the  13th  of  November,  Lady  Jane  and  her 
husband  were  attainted  of  High  Treason.  Instead  however 
of  being  immediately  executed,  they  were  remanded  to 
prison,  and  no  further  steps  taken  till  after  the  suppression 
of  the  insurrection  headed  by  Sir.  Francis  Wyatt,  in  the 
following  February. 

The  causes  of  this  insurrection  were  the  measures  taken 
by  Mary,  in  direct  violation  of  her  open  declarations  and 

PROMISES,  TO  RE-ESTABLISH  PoPERY  IN  EnGLAND.       ThcSC  tilings 

taken  in  connection  with  the  proposed  union  of  Mary  with 
Philip  of  Spain,  a  bigoted  Catholic,  every  where  produced 
discontent  and  led  to  the  formation  of  a  powerful  conspiracy, 
which  however,  was  soon  suppressed  and  its  leaders  brought 
to  the  block. 

The  failure  of  this  insurrection  served  to  strengthen  the 
Queen's  authority,  and  to  furnish  her  with  a  pretence  for  her 
subsequent  cruelties,  which  gave  to  her  the  unglorious  title  of 
the  Bloody  Mary.  The  flames  of  persecution  were  lighted 
up  all  over  the  kingdom.  But  among  all  who  perished  in 
this  horrid  carnage,  there  was  none  whose  fate  was  so  much 
lamented  as  that  of  the  beautiful  and  accomplished  Lady 
Jane  Grey.  Had  Mary  possessed  a  spark  of  magnanimity, 
she  would  have  excepted  this  lovely  innocent  creature  from 
her  bloody  edicts.  The  nation  did  not  require  such  a  sacri- 
fice ;  neither  did  Honor,  Justice  or  Religion  require  it.  The 
axe  had  fallen  on  the  prime  mover  of  the  mischief,  and  on 
most  of  the  coactors ;  blood  enough  had  been  shed  for  the 
wrong  intended  her.  But  alas  bigotry  had  frozen  the  heart 
of  Mary,  and  jealousy  rendered  her  implacable.     Neither  the 


170  LADY    JANE    GREY. 

blood  of  Northumberland,  nor  of  Suffolk,  nor  of  many  a 
gallant  knight  or  godly  minister  could  quiet  her  apprehen- 
sions or  abate  her  cruel  demands.  A  purer  and  more  un- 
earthly sacrifice  was  called  for  to  teach  the  nation  how  little 
was  to  be  expected  from  her  clemency.  Among  all  the  fair 
daughters  of  England,  the  loveliest  had  been  selected. 
Mary  despatched  a  messenger  to  the  Tower  to  warn  the 
Lady  Jane,  to  prepare  for  death,  an  event  for  which  she  had 
been  long  prepared,  and  to  which  she  was  amply  reconciled. 
Under  a  show  of  sympathy  and  regard  for  her  soul,  priests 
were  sent  to  labor  to  effect  her  conversion  to  Popery.  But 
she  was  too  well  established  in  the  truth  to  be  moved  by 
their  arts  or  arguments. 

Her  husband,  Lord  Guilford  Dudley,  was  first  led  forth  to 
execution.  She  had  previously  declined  an  invitation  to  a 
parting  interview  with  him,  lest  it  should  shake  their  fortitude 
in  the  trying  hour.  From  her  window  she  saw  him  led 
forth  to  Tower  Hill  and  testified  her  great  affection  for  him 
by  a  FLOOD  of  tears  ;  she  saw  also  his  headless  trunk 
carried  back  to  the  chapel.  Considering  that  she  was  im- 
mediately to  follow  in  the  same  bloody  path,  she  recollected 
herself  and  instantly  recovered  her  composure.  Soon  after 
she  was  led  forth  to  the  same  bloody  death  on  the  green  in 
front  of  the  chapel.  She  advanced  with  a  book  in  her  hand 
and  a  countenance  beaming  with  a  serenity  which  nought 
but  the  Christians'  could  impart.  She  ascended  the  scaffold 
and  made  a  speech,  in  which  she  cast  no  reflections  upon 
the  Queen,  but  took  all  the  blame  to  herself.  In  conclusion 
she  requested  the  people's  prayers,  and  repeated  the  li, 
Psalm.  Her  eyes  being  bound,  and  bidding  the  executioner 
to  despatch  her  quickly,  she  exclaimed,  "  Lord,  into  thy 
hands  I  commend  my  spirit,"  and  received  the  fatal  blade. 
Her  demeanor  was  throughout  touchingly  resigned  and 
beautiful,  and  in  harmony  with  the  gentle  tenor  of  her  whole 
life.  Thus  fell  the  Lady  Jane,  not  having  completed  her 
17th  year.  Where  was  the  generous  and  chivalric  spirit  of 
England,  when  such  worth  and  beauty  was  immolated  on 


\ 


LADY   JANE    GREY.  171 

the  altar  of  Bigotry  ?  The  death  of  the  lovely  cibature  had 
such  an  influence  upon  the  Judge  that  condemned  her,  that 
he  became  insane,  and  in  his  ravings,  cried  out,  "  Take  away 
the  Lady  Jane,  O  take  away  the  Lady  Jane  !"  Why  should 
we  wonder  that  such  a  perversion  of  Queenly  power  should 
alienate  the  heart  of  a  gallant  nation  !  We  need  not  wonder 
that  a  woman  whose  heart  was  the  seat  of  jealousy  and 
cruelty,  should  remain  a  stranger  to  domestic  happiness, — 
that  all  her  projects  for  the  public  good  should  fail — that  her 
husband  should  ultimately  become  disgusted  with  her  and 
leave  her — that  she  should  abandon  herself  to  grief  and 
despair,  and  after  a  short  and  inglorious  reign,  die  unlamen- 
ted  !  Such  was  the  life  of  Mary  !  How  different  from  that 
of  Lady  Jane  !  How  different  their  character  and  their 
end! 


FIRM    TRUST    IN   GOD. 

To  our  own  safety,  our  own  sedulity  is  required.  And 
then  blessed  forever  be  that  mother's  child,  whose  faith  hath 
made  him  the  diild  of  God.  The  Earth  may  shake,  the  pil- 
lars of  the  World  may  tremble  under  us ;  tl^e  countenance 
of  the  heavens  may  be  appalled,  the  sun  may  lose  his  light, 
the  moon  her  beauty,  the  stars  their  glory ;  but  concerning 
the  man  that  trusteth  in  God,  if  the  fire  have  proclaimed  it- 
self unable  so  much  as  to  singe  a  hair  of  his  nead ;  if  lions, 
beasts,  ravenous  by  nature,  and  keen  with  hunger,  being  set 
to  devour,  have,  as  it  were,  religiously  adored  the  very  flesh 
of  the  faithful  man ;  what  is  there  in  the  world  that  shall 
change  his  heart,  overthrow  his  faith,  alter  his  affection  to- 
wards God,  or  the  affection  of  God  to  him  ?  If  I  be  of 
this  note,  wJio  shall  make  a  separation  between  me  and 
my  God. 


172  TO    THE    EVENING    STAR. 


TO  THE  EVENING   STAR. 

■  BY  E.   CURTISS  HIKE,  ESQ.   U.   8.   N. 

I'm  gazing  on  the  Evening  Star, 

The  star  of  Joy,  and  Hope,  and  Love ; 
Which,  in  its  radiant  home  afar. 

Through  Heaven's  veil  looks,  from  above. 
Upon  a  world  below  it  spread. 

Where  sin,  and  care,  and  grief  are  rife. 
And  myriads  roam  with  thoughtless  tread. 

Along  the  dusty  road  of  life. 

Bright  orb !  how  oft  I've  seen  thy  light 

Enkindled  in  the  eastern  sky, 
When  life  to  me  was  young  and  bright. 

And  aU  was  fair  before  my  eye. 
Thou  wert  the  guardian  natal  star 

That  shone  upon  my  hour  of  birth, 
And  when  in  glowing  lands  afar, 

I've  hailed  with  joy  thy  glance  of  mirtk. 

"When  Time  was  young,  ere  Sorrow  came, 

And  seamed  his  fair  and  sunny  brow. 
Thy  quenchless,  pure  and  glowing  flame. 

Shone  brightly  on  the  Earth  as  now. 
Beside  his  flock  the  Chaldean, 

Gazed  wistful  on  thy  distant  glow, 
And  sought  thy  mistic  lore  to  scan. 

Thousands  of  weary  years  ago. 

A.  host  swept  o'er  the  Alpine  heights. 

Its  leader  cast  his  eagle  eye 
Upon  the  myriad  burning  lights. 

Suspended  from  the  circling  sky. 
But  thou  did'st  claim  his  fondest  glance, 

A  smile  passed  o'er  his  brow  of  gloom, 
rhou  sawest  him  on  the  throne  of  France, 

But  now  art  shining  on  his  tomb ! 


TO   THE    EVENING   STAR.  173 

Thy  burning  glance  is  mirror'd  now. 

Within  the  wild  and  lonely  main. 
As  swift  our  sharp  relentless  prow, 

Cuts  the  blue  watery  field  in  twain. 
Bright  gem  of  Heaven !  still  mayest  thou  shine 

To  light  the  path  before  my  eye, 
I  hail  thee  as  a  glorious  sign. 

That  brighter  lands  before  me  lie ! 


A  NEW  FLOWER  GARDEN  IN  PARIS. 

The  fashionables  of  Paris  have  been  thrown  into  an  ecs- 
tacy  of  delight  by  the  opening  of  a  flower  garden  on  a  new 
plan,  in  the  Champs  Elysees.  It  is  called  Le  Jardin  d'Hiver, 
the  Winter  Garden,  and  is  a  veritable  floral  palace.  A  per- 
petual summer  reigns  under  its  vast  glass  roof,  with  an 
atmosphere  as  fragrant  as  the  spicy  vales  of  the  Indies. 
Here  are  found  the  treasures  of  all  seasons  and  all  climates  ; 
the  most  modest  and  most  superb  plants,  flowers  of  the 
mountains,  and  flowers  of  the  valley.  Beautiful  promenades 
are  laid  out,  bordered  with  trees  and  fringed  with  ever- 
greens. After  threading  the  pretty  labyrinths  of  the  garden, 
you  enter  the  saloon,  carpeted  with  green  and  furnished 
with  ottomans,  where  the  flowers  are  arranged  with  such 
exquisite  elegance  and  art,  as  only  the  hands  of  a  Parisian 
can  arrange  these  delicate  creations.  The  court  in  front  of 
the  garden  is  always  filled  with  the  carriages  of  those  rich 
votaries  of  pleasure,  who  come  here  to  select  from  two  hun- 
dred thousand  plants,  the  most  beautiful  flowers  with  which 
to  decorate  their  persons  for  the  ball  or  the  opera,  and,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  drawing  all  the  dandies  and  idle  fashiona- 
bles of  the  capital  to  this  enchanting  retreat,  so  that  the 
proprietor  is  likely  to  reap  a  golden  harvest  from  his  happy 
thought  of  a  Winter  Flower  Garden. 


174  NEW  TEIRS^  ADDRESS. 


.rum  ri' 


NEW    YEAR'S    ADDRESS. 

BY    THE    EDITOR. 

There  are,  along  the  stream  of  time,  certain  places  which 
may  serve  the  voyagers  thereon,  as  points  from  which  to 
take  a  retrospective  view  of  the  past,  and  enable  them  from 
that  to  lay  down  the  course  they  are  to  pursue  in  the 
future. 

The  exit  of  the  Old  and  the  entry  of  a  New  Year  places  us, 
as  it  were,  on  an  eminence  from  which  we  are  naturally  led 
to  look  back  and  survey  the  ground  we  have  gone  over,  and 
forward  to  the  dim  and  distant  future,  all  unknown,  and  yet 
perhaps  pregnant  with  the  most  soul  stirring  events.  In 
taking  these  retrospective  and  prospective  views  of  life,  and 
especially  in  fondly  anticipating  the  purer  and  more  satisfac- 
tory joys  of  the  future,  we  are  prone  to  overlook  the  ama- 
zing brevity  and  fleetness  of  human  life,  which  every  stroke 
of  the  pulse  is  calculated  to  impress  upon  us.  Hence  that 
saying  of  the  moralising  Young — "the  man  is  yet  unborn 
who  duly  weighs  an  hour."  Trite  as  this  subject  has  be- 
come, we  propose  to  make  it  the  topic  of  our  New  Year's 
Reflections. 

The  Latins  expressed  this  subject  in  two  words, "  Tempus 
Fugit " — time  flies.  The  rapidity  of  time  is  represented  in 
Scripture  by  the  shooting  of  an  arrow,  passing  vapor  and 
the  flying  cloud — the  fading  flower,  the  flying  sail.  True, 
time  does  not  always  seem  to  fly,  but  has  apparently  a  vari- 
ety of  motions.  He  can  walk,  run  and  creep.  If  he  travel 
with  a  merry  companion,  no  arrow  is  so  swift ;  if  with  one 
that  is  borne  down  with  heavy  burdens,  not  a  snail  so  slow ; 
if  with  a  wise  man,  he  moves  at  an  even  and  moderate  pace ; 
if  with  the  fool,  he  seems  like  one  leaping  and  dancing  at  the 


NEW   YEARS*   ADDRESS.  176 

sound  of  wild  and  extatic  music.  Thus  time  seems  to  adapt 
his  motions  to  the  different  pursuits  and  passions  of  men. 
Not  distinguishing  between  this  real  and  apparent  motion  of 
time,  many  are  deceived,  and  discover  their  error  when  it  is 
too  late  to  rectify  it.  Time  may  be  said  to  be  always  on 
the  wing, — ever  in  motion :  on — on — on  !  through  clouds 
and  darkness,  amid  sunshine  and  showers,  marking  the 
bounds  of  every  habitation,  and  numbering  the  moments  of 
every  living  being.  It  seems  but  a  brief  hour  since  we 
mingled  in  the  sports  of  childhood,  or  were  occupied  in 
youthful  studies,  and  began  to  pluck  the  flowers  that  grew 
along  the  path  of  life.  But  a  few  short  months  seem  to  have 
elapsed  since  we  first  entered  upon  the  active  business  of 
life,  full  of  hope  and  courage  !  Intervening  years  now  seem 
but  as  an  hand  breadth,  and  the  whole  period  of  active  effort 
to  dwindle  to  a  point.  If  the  instructions  of  the  great 
Teacher,  Time,  for  the  past,  have  left  no  good  impression 
upon  the  mind,  let  us  take  heed  to  those  which  distill  like 
the  gentle  dew  from  the  future. 

"  Swiftly  see  each  moment  flies, 
See  and  learn !  be  timely  wise, 
Every  moment  shortens  day : 
Every  pulse  beats  time  away. 
Thus  thy  every  rising  breath, 
Wafts  thee  on  to  certain  death* 
Seize  the  moments  as  they  fly, 
Know  to  live,  and  learn  to  die." 

Cicero,  in  his  first  book  of  Tusculan  Questions,  exposes 
the  false  judgment  we  are  prone  to  form  of  the  duration  of 
human  life  compared  with  Eternity.  He  illustrates  the  sub- 
ject by  a  passage  from  the  Natural  History  of  Aristotle,  in 
which  he  describes  a  species  of  insect  found  on  the  banks  of 
the  Hypanis,  that  never  outlives  the  day  of  its  birth.  The 
great  moralist  represents  one  of  the  most  robust  and  long 
lived  of  these  insects,  whose  existence  w"as,  in  a  manner, 
coeval  with  time,  who  began  to  exist  at  the  break  of  day, 
and  through  superior  strength  of  constitution,  lived  through 
the  hours  of  a  long  and  active  life,  even  to  the  setting  of  the 


176  NEW  years'  address. 

Sun  ; — he  represents  this  Nestor  of  Hypanis  as  assembling 
his  acquaintances,  friends  and  relatives,  under  the  shelter  of 
an  umbrageous  mushroom,  and  thus  giving  them  his  parting 
instructions.  The  orator  dwells  with  solemn  emphasis  upon 
the  shortness  and  uncertainty  of  life  ;  on  the  misfortunes, 
losses  and  privations  to  which  all  are  exposed — the  multi- 
tudes of  every  age  who  had  perished  since  he  began  life — 
the  whole  broods  of  infants  which  had  perished  in  a  moment 
by  one  rude  blast — of  the  shoals  of  youth  that  had  been 
swept  into  the  waves  by  a  sudden  breeze — and  of  the  waste- 
ful deluges  wrought  by  a  sudden  shower,  the  strongest  holds 
being  not  proof  against  a  storm  of  hail.  He  tells  of  having 
lived  in  the  first  ages,  and  of  having  conversed  with  insects 
of  a  larger  size  and  greater  virtue ;  finally  he  speaks  of  the 
flattering  hopes  he  once  indulged  of  abiding  here  forever, 
of  the  magnificent  cells  he  had  hollowed  out  for  himself — of 
the  confidence  he  had  reposed  in  the  firmness  of  his  joints,  and 
the  strength  of  his  pinions.  But,  now  alas  !  his  end  is  come : 
he  warns  all  to  avoid  the  snares  into  which  he  had  fallen — 
bids  them  farewell,  and  closes  his  eyes  forever  on  Earth. 

Thus  much  for  the  beautiful  fiction  of  Aristotle,  employed 
by  Cicero  to  correct  the  errors  of  men  respecting  the  tenor 
of  human  life.  Solomon  sends  the  sluggard  to  the  ant  for 
instruction.  We  also  may  if  we  will,  learn  wisdom  from  the 
insects  of  Hypanis  ;  like  the  ephemeri,  we  have,  at  the 
utmost,  our  day  to  live.  Many  perish  in  the  very  dawn, 
and  the  man  who,  out  of  a  million,  lingers  on  to  the  evening 
twilight  is  not  counted  happy.  We  flutter,  as  it  were,  a 
day  in  the  sunbeam  of  existence  ;  the  shades  of  evening 
speedily  close  around,  and  we  are  found  only  with  the  things 
that  were.  Man  drops  the  masque  of  mortality,  and  retires 
unheeded  by  his  fellow  mortals,  from  life's  great  drama. 
The  pfctty  distinctions  of  life  attend  him  no  further.  Moral 
worth  takes  the  precedency  of  every  thing  else.  The  Sum- 
mer's Sun  will  shine  brightly  on  the  spot  where  he  lies  low 
and  forgotten  ;  but  its  beams  will  give  neither  light  nor  heat 
to  the  lowlv  tenant  of  the  grave.     The  leaves  of  Autumn 


NEW  years'  address.   '  177 

will  fall,  rustling  on  the  clod  sad  emblem  of  his  fale,  who 
once  trod  the  dust  which  now  covers  him.  Winter's  snowy 
mantle  shall  veil  the  neglected  spot,  and  nourish  only  the 
green  herb  which  springs  from  his  ashes.  Spring  too  shall 
return,  but  he  who  slumbers  beneath  shall  no  more  wake  to 
its  beauty,  nor  shall  the  hopes  he  was  wont  to  cherish  ever 
germinate  anew.  Such  is  the  frailty  of  man,  the  futility  and 
termination  of  every  Earth-born  hope. 

Man  is  a  creature  designed  for  two  different  states  of  be- 
ing or  rather  for  two  different  lives.  His  first  life  is  short 
and  transient ;  his  second  permanent  and  lasting.  Which, 
now  shall  we  endeavor  to  secure,  the  pleasures  and  gratifi- 
cations of  a  short  and  precarious  life,  or  the  happiness  of  a 
life  which  never  ends.  Not  a  moment  is  needed,  one  would 
think,  for  a  rational  being  to  decide  this  question.  Yet 
though  almost  all  are  right  in  theory,  many  sadly  err  in 
practice.  They  make  provision  for  this  life,  as  if  it  were 
never  to  have  an  end,  and  act  as  though  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  another  life.  An  inhabitant  from  a  distant  world 
wholly  ignorant  of  the  history  of  our  race,  would,  in  observ- 
ing the  conduct  of  the  mass  of  mankind,  naturally  conclude 
that  we  were  made  for  purposes  entirely  different  from  what 
we  really  are ;  that  we  were  placed  here  merely  to  pursue 
the  shadowy  forms  of  earthly  good.  But  what  would  be  his 
astonishment  to  learn  that  mankind  were  made  for  another 
state  of  being,  which  should  never  have  an  end,  and  that 
they  were  placed  here  to  make  preparation  for  that  state. 
The  shortness  and  uncertainty,  of  life  most  affectingly  teach 
us  the  vanity  of  that  hope  which  is  misemployed  on  tem- 
poral objects.  The  grave  lies  between  us  and  the  object 
after  which  we  seek.  Where  one  lives  to  enjoy  the  good  he 
has  in  view,  thousands,  nay  millions  are  cut  off  in  the  pursuit 
of  it.  And  yet  the  lessons  of  experience  are  unheeded  ;  one 
hope  no  sooner  dies  than  another  rises  in  its  stead  and  for- 
ward the  eager  aspirant  presses  to  imaginary  points  of  life ; 
grasps  at  impossibilities  and  disquiets  himself  in  vain. 
Seeing  the  bulk  of  mankind  live  only  "  to  eat  and  drink  and 


178  NEW    YEARS     ADDRESS. 

waste  the  whole  of  life  in  the  pursuits  of  low  and  unworthy 
objects,  it  is  not  surprising  that  they  should  leave  behind 
them  only  the  memorials  of  their  folly.  Other  than  these 
they  leave  behind  them,  no  traces  of  their  existence,  but  are 
forgotten  as  though  they  had  never  been.  They  are  neither 
wanted  by  the  poor,  nor  regretted  by  the  rich :  They  are 
neither  missed  in  the  commonwealth,  nor  often  lamented  in 
the  family  circle. 

Alas !  who  can  contemplate  the  ordinary  course  and 
termination  of  human  life,  without  a  sigh  !  Surely  man  is 
but  a  shadow  and  life  a  dream !  How  is  he  given  up  to 
folly,  tortured  in  Hfe  and  swallowed  up  in  death  !  This  sub- 
ject is  strikingly  illustrated  in  one  of  the  visions  of  Mirza. 
From  a  rocky  pinnacle  of  vast  height,  Mirza  is  presented 
with  the  view  of  an  immense  valley,  with  a  mighty  river 
rolling  through  it,  in  the  midst  of  which  a  bridge  consisting 
of  three  score  and  ten  arches,  is  seen  standing.  This  bridge 
originally  consisted  of  1000  arches  ;  a  great  flood  had  swept 
away  all  the  rest. »  Multitudes  were  seen  passing  over  this 
bridge  which  was  covered  with  invisible  trap  doors  through 
which  several  were  seen  dropping  into  the  tide  beneath  and 
immediately  disappeared.  Mirza  gazed  at  this  wonderful 
structure  with  astonishment,  mingled  with  sorrow.  His 
heart  was  filled  with  melancholy  to  see  some  dropping  unex- 
pectedly in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  jollity  and  catching  at 
every  thing  to  save  themselves.  Some  who  in  thoughtful 
mood,  looking  up  towards  heaven,  stumbled  and  fell.  Multi- 
tudes were  busy  in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles  that  glittered  and 
danced  before  them ;  but  when  just  about  to  grasp  them, 
their  footing  failed  and  down  they  sank.  This  mysterious 
bridge  is  human  life  :  over  this  bridge  we  are  now  passing, 
and  soon,  perhaps  this  year,  we  may  drop  into  the  tide 
below  which  will  carry  us  to  a  brighter  world  and  fairer 
climes,  or  to  a  region  of  unending  pain  and  sorrow.  Who 
among  the  numerous  readers  of  our  Annual  will  look  beyond 
this  vale  of  tears  and  this  fleeting  life,  for  the  enduring 
objects  of  hope  ?  * 


NEW  years'  address.  179 

The  labors  and  trials  of  the  past  year  are  at  an  end,  and 
the  curtain  of  the  New- Year  is  beginning  to  rise.  Millions 
of  throbbing  hearts,  with  hopes  more  or  less  raised,  anxious- 
ly look  for  the  revelations  of  the  future.  Nevertheless  we 
may  be  assured  that  the  course  of  events  will  be  much  as 
they  have  been :  the  same  causes  will  produce  the  same  ef- 
fects. Those  who  seek  for  happiness  in  the  fading  objects 
and  transitory  pleasures  of  this  world,  will  find  themselves 
as  far  from  the  object  of  their  wish  at  the  end  of  the  year,  as 
they  were  in  the  commencement.  Those  who  indulge  in  an 
indolent,  procrastinating  spirit  will  accomplish  nothing  im- 
portant for  God  or  humanity.  The  timid  and  unbelieving 
will  turn  aside  from  the  high  and  holy  path  of  self-denying 
duty.  To  all  but  the  firm  believers  in  revelation,  the  future 
will  probably  be  but  as  the  reprint  of  the  past — -but  the 
repetition  of  its  errors,  its  follies,  and  its  vices.  There 
is,  within  the  boundaries  of  our  rapidly  extending,  happy 
Republic,  no  good  citizen,  but  feels  a  deep  solicitude 
to  see  the  Nation  abounding  in  knowledge  and  virtue  ;  but 
all  experience  teaches  us  that  little  can  be  expected  on  this 
subject,  without  the  aid  of  individual  effort  and  example. 
Neither  associated  effort,  nor  the  collective  wisdom  of  a 
Country,  aided  by  brilliant  assemblies,  and  strains  of  impas- 
sioned eloquence,  can  form  a  substitute  for  personal  piety, 
or  affect  any  lasting  and  salutary  change  in  the  national 
character,  without  it. 

To  the  young  men,  then,  residing  in  every  State  in  the  Un- 
ion, and  exercising  more  or  less  influence,  we  say,  weigh  well 
your  responsibility,  and  set  your  standard  of  action  high. 
Young  ladies,  look  at  the  important  position  you  occupy,  and 
fail  not  to  exert  that  conservative  influence  which  you  are 
pre-eminently  fitted  to  exercise.  Parents  and  teachers, 
awake  to  a  deeper  sense  of  your  responsibility,  and  so  fulfill 
the  duties  of  your  important  stations,  that  not  only  your- 
selves, but  also  those  under  your  guardian  care,  may  hail 
each  returning  anniversary  of  this  day  as  a  Happy  New- 
Year. 


180  GEMS    OF   SENTIMENT. 

GEMS    OF    SENTIMENT. 

Spiritual  Mindedness. — There  is  not  an  earthly  beauty 
that  I  look  upon,  that  has  not  something  in  it  spiritual  to  me. 
And  when  my  mind  is  clear  and  open  and  my  soul  is  right, 
there  is  not  a  flower  I  see,  that  does  not  move  my  heart  to 
feel  towards  it,  as  a  child  of  God.  It  is  but  a  type  of  what 
shall  be,  and  my  own  being  and  soul  seem  as  if  linked  with 
eternity. 

Diversity  of  Sects. — The  many  sects  which  compose  the 
Church  of  Christ,  may  be  compared  to  the  rainbow,  of  which 
the  various  but  blended  tints  form  one  celestial  arch  of 
beauty ;  or  we  may  liken  to  a  well  ordered  band  of  musi- 
cians, who,  though  playing  separate  parts,  unite  in  producing 
one  harmonious  Whole. 

Fastidious  Sensibility. — In  matters  which  are  not  im- 
mediately subject  to  religion  or  morality,  it  is  absurd  to 
be  critically  nice.  Sensibility  may,  by  undue  attention  to 
little  things,  be  quickened  to  a  degree  wholly  inconsistent 
with  our  allotted  condition,  and,  in  this  frame  of  mind  we  are 
alike  vulnerable  to  the  gentlest  touch  and  irritabld  at  the 
slightest  asperity. 

Works  of  God. — It  is  wonderful  to  behold  the  operations 
of  God's  hand  in  Creation,  in  giving  life  to  the  meanest  in- 
sects, more  wonderful  to  behold  the  instinct  of  animals ;  most 
wonderful  to  contemplate  a  reasonable  creature  ;  but  how 
inexpressibly  wonderful  and  lovely  appears  a  spiritual, 
intellectual,  moral  creature,  born  of  God,  trusting,  loving  and 
serving  Him  in  the  beauty  of  holiness. 

Virtue. — Virtue  is  the  conformity  of  our  affections  with 
the  public  good ;  it  is  the  highest  exercise  and  improve- 
ment of  reason — the  connection,  harmony  and  just  balance 
of  the  affections  and  passions  ;  the  health,  strength  and  beauty 
of  the  mind.  Aristotle,  taught  that  virtue  was  necessary  to 
the  young,  comfortable  to  age,  serviceable  to  the  poor,  and 
an  ornament  to  the  rich. 


GRAND   DUKE    AND    JEW.  181 


THE  GRAND  DUKE  AND  THE  JEW. 

The  following  singular  story,  which  was  current  among 
tne  English  residents  in  St.  Petersburgh  at  the  coronation  of 
the  present  Emperor  of  Russia,  has  been  narrated  to  us  by  a 
person  newly  arrived  from  that  part  of  the  continent. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  year  1816,  an  English  gentleman 
from  Akmetch  in  the  Crimea,  having  occasion  to  travel  to 
France  on  business  of  importance,  directed  his  course  by 
way  of  Warsaw  in  Poland.  About  an  hour  after  his  arrival 
in  that  city,  he  quitted  the  tavern  in  which  he  had  been 
taking  a  refreshment,  to  take  a  walk  through  the  streets. 
While  sauntering  in  front  of  one  of  the  public  buildings,  he 
met  an  elderly  gentleman  of  a  grave  aspect  and  courteous 
demeanor.  After  mutual  exchange  of  civilities  they  got  into 
conversation  during  which,  with  the  characteristic  frankness 
of  an  Englishman,  he  told  the  stranger  who  he  was,  where 
from,  and  whither  he  was  going.  The  other,  in  the  most 
friendly  manner,  invited  him  to  share  the  hospitalities  of  his 
house  till  such  times  as  he  found  it  convenient  to  resume  his 
journey — adding,  with  a  smile,  that  it  was  not  improbable 
that  he  might  visit  the  Crimea  himself  in  the  course  of  that 
year,  when,  perhaps,  he  might  require  a  similar  return  :  the 
invitation  was  accepted,  and  he  was  conducted  to  a  splendid 
mansion,  elegant  without  and  commodious  within. 

Unbounded  liberality  on  the  part  of  the  Pole,  produced 
confidence  on  the  part  of  the  Englishman.  The  latter  had  a 
small  box  of  jewels  of  great  value,  which  he  had  carried 
about  his  person  from  the  time  of  his  leaving  home — finding 
that  mode  of  conveyance  both  hazardous  and  inconvenient 
in  a  town,  he  requested  his  munificent  host  to  deposit  it  in  a 
place  of  security  till  he  should  be  ready  to  go  away.  At  the 
expiration  of  three  days  he  prepared  for  his  departure,  and 
in  asking  for  his  box,  how  was  he  amazed  when  the  old  gen- 
tleman, with  a  countenance  exhibiting  the  utmost  surprise, 
replied. 


182  GRAND    DUKE    AND    JEW. 

"What  box?" 

"  Why,  the  small  box  of  jewels  which  I  gave  to  you  to 
keep  for  me." 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  must  surely  be  mistaken :  I  never, 
really,  saw  or  heard  of  such  a  box." 

The  Englishman  was  petrified.  After  recovering  himself 
a  little,  he  requested  that  he  would  call  his  wife,  she  having 
been  present  when  he  received  it.  She  came,  and  on  being 
questioned,  answered  in  exact  unison  with  her  husband,  ex- 
pressed the  same  surprise,  and  benevolently  endeavored  to 
persuade  her  distracted  guest  that  it  was  a  mere  hallucina- 
tion. With  mingled  feelings  of  horror,  astonishment  and 
despair,  he  walked  out  of  the  house  and  went  to  the  tavern 
at  which  he  had  put  up  on  his  arrival  in  Warsaw.  There 
he  related  his  mysterious  story,  and  learned  that  his  iniquit- 
ous host  was  the  richest  Jew  in  Poland.  He  was  advised, 
without  delay,  to  state  the  case  to  the  grand  duke,  who 
fortunately  happened  at  that  time  to  be  in  Warsaw. 

He  accordingly  waited  upon  him,  and  with  little  ceremony 
was  admitted  to  an  audience.  He  briefly  laid  down  his 
case,  and  Constantine  "  with  a  greedy  ear  devoured  up  his 
discourse."  Constantine  expressed  his  astonishment — told 
him  he  knew  the  Jew,  having  had  extensive  money  transac- 
tions with  him — that  he  had  always  been  respectable,  and 
of  an  unblemished*  character.  "  However,"  he  added,  "  I 
will  use  every  legitimate  means  to  unveil  the  mystery."  So 
saying  he  called  on  some  gentlemen  who  were  to  dine  with 
him  that  day,  and  despatched  a  messenger  with  a  note 
to  the  Jew,  requesting  his  presence.  Aaron  obeyed  the 
summons. 

"  Have  you  no  recollection  of  having  received  a  box  of 
jewels  from  the  hand  of  this  gentleman  ?"  said  the  duke. 

"  Never,  my  Lord,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Strange,  indeed.  Are  you  perfectly  conscious,"  turning 
to  the  Englishman,  "  that  you  gave  the  box  as  stated  ?" 

"  Quite  certain  my  lord." 

Then  addressing   himself  to  the  Jew,  "  This  is  a  very 


GRAND  DUKE  AND  JEW.  183 

singular  case,  and  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  use  singular  means  to 
ascertain  the  truth.     Is  your  wife  at  home  1" 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 

"Then,"  continued  Constantine,  "there  is  a  sheet  of  paper 
and  here  is  a  pen ;  proceed  to  write  a  note  to  your  wife  in 
such  terms  as  I  shall  dictate." 

Aaron  lifted  the  pen. 

"  Now,"  said  the  second  Solomon,  "  commence  by  saying, 
All  is  discovered  !  There  is  no  resource  left  but  to  deliver 
up  the  box.  I  have  owned  the  fact  in  the  presence  of  the 
grand  duke.' " 

A  tremor  shook  the  frame  of  the  Israelite,  and  the  pen 
dropped  from  his  fingers.  But  instantly  recovering  himself 
he  exclaimed, 

"  That  is  impossible,  my  lord.  That  would  be  directly 
implicating  myself." 

"  I  give  you  my  word  and  honor,"  said  Constantine,  "  in 
presence  of  every  one  in  the  room,  that  what  you  write  shall 
never  be  used  as  an  instrument  against  you,  farther  than  the 
effect  it  produces  on  your  wife.  If  you  are  innocent  you 
have  nothing  to  fear ;  but  if  you  persist  in  not  writing  it,  I 
will  hold  it  as  a  proof  of  your  guilt." 

With  a  trembling  hand  the  terrified  Jew  wrote  out  the 
note,  folded  it  up,  and  as  he  was  desired,  sealed  it  with  his 
own  signet.  Two  officers  were  despatched  with  it  to  his 
house,  and  when  Sarah  glanCed  over  its  contents,  she  swoon- 
ed and  sunk  to  the  ground.  The  box  was  delivered  up  and 
restored  to  its  owner — and  the  Jew  suffered  the  punishment 
his  villany  deserved.     He  was  sent  to  Siberia. 


A  SELECTED  GEM. 
It  is  no  small  commendation  to  manage  a  little  well.  He 
IS  a  good  coachman  that  can  turn  in  a  little  room.  To  live 
well  in  abundance,  is  the  praise  of  the  estate,  not  of  the  per- 
son. I  will  study  more  how  to  give  a  good  account  of  my 
little,  than  how  to  make  it  more. 


«^        •  Original. 

SABBATH    MORN, 


T.  Hastinss. 


Lord      of 

nio: — io~"n~~ — o:" 


1.   A  -  gain     the 


e=^;r-a-i-^ 


ozz 


wakes    the      kind  -  ling      ray, —  Dis  -  pels      the 


dark  -  ness 

3:r_n:i_^_3E_e:-_.-?:_:e^:^^p_.^. 


^ 


I  ^       1— ^ 


I     L 


nin:?nzn:r-r:z- 


h-O'-i-H-- 


rxx: 


J: 


-© 


=^^ 


F — F"~]~F~'r~"Fr 


— Or:~l 


night.      And  pours      un 


ceas  -   ing       day, 


• 'r.    "1^"    "]Q"     o     iQ" 


■1 


e± 


^.=iE=I 


2. 
0  what  a  night  was  that  which  wrapp'd  ! 

A  sinful  world  in  gloom  ! 
0  what  a  Sun  that  broke  this  day. 

Triumphant  from  the  tomb. 


3. 

This  day  be  grateful  homage  paid, 
And  loud  hosannas  sung  ; 

Let  gladness  dwell  iii  every  heart. 
And  praise  on  every  tongue. 


Ten  thousand  thousand  lips  shall  join 
To  hail  this  welcome  mom. 

Which  scatters  blessings  from  its  wings. 
To  nations  yet  unborn. 


Origins   . 

THE  ONLY   DAUGHTER. 

BY     SARAH     C.     m'cABE. 
With   a   Stoel   Engraying. 

Lemira  Carlton  was  an  only  daughter;  the  pride  and 
joy  of  a  father's  heart,  and  the  object  of  a  mother's  tenderest 
affection  and  care.  Judge  Carlton,  was  a  man  of  somewhat 
eccentric  habits,  highly  respectable.  At  the  time  this  narra- 
tive commences  he  was  only  in  moderate  circumstances.  It 
was  during  one  of  those  exciting  periods,  that  so  frequently 
characterize  the  American  people,  when  an  intense  desire 
pervaded  all  classes  to  become  suddenly  rich,  that  he  entered 
upon  the  broad  sea  of  speculation.  After  being  driven  by 
opposing  winds  and  tides  for  some  years,  with  very  httle 
success,  in  one  of  those  freaks  of  fortune,  by  which  some 
are  made  rich,  and  others  poor,  very  unexpectedly  to  him,  in 
the  short  space  of  six  months,  he  realized  a  princely  fortune. 
And  thus  by  the  mere  pressure  of  surrounding  circumstan- 
ces, by  the  power  and  influence  that  wealth  imparts  to  its 
possessor,  he  found  himself  encircled  by  hosts  of  admiring 
friends,  in  an  elevated  sphere  of  society,  destitute  of  the 
accomplishments  requisite  lO  render  that  sphere  agreeable 
or  even  desirable.  He  was  a  man  of  good  practical  sense 
and  business  habits,  wath  somewhat  of  a  pleasing  exterior, 
yet  entirely  wanting  in  what  the  elite  would  term,  a  literary 
and  fashionable  education :  knowing  nothing  and  caring 
nothing  about  the  rules  that  govern  fashionable  society. 

His  wife,  too,  was  a  plain  unsophisticated  woman,  with 


190  THE    ONLY    DAUGHTER. 

a  moderate  share  of  intellect.  Had  she,  at  this  time,  been 
thrown  into  a  class  of  society  more  correct  in  principle,  the 
impulse  then  given  to  her  aspirations,  might  have  resulted  in 
a  more  correct  course  of  action.  The  hollow-heai-ted 
flatteries  that  poured  in  upon  her  from  every  quarter,  exerted 
a  very  unhappy  influence  upon  her  unsuspecting  mind.  The 
plain  neatly  furnished  dwelling  immediately  gave  place  to  a 
superb  modem  residence,  filled  with  rich  and  gorgeous  furni- 
ture ;  to  this  must  be  added  the  necessary  requisites  of  ser- 
vants and  equipage,  with  other  things  considered  indispen- 
sable to  that  sphere  in  which  they  were  called,  by  fortune's 
smiles,  to  move. 

Had  these  been  the  only  important  changes  it  would  have 
been  well ;  but  there  was  one  still  more  so,  and  more  to  be 
regretted.  Hitherto,  the  object  of  their  concentrated  affec- 
tion and  interest,  the  lovely  and  artless  Lemira  had,  by  devo- 
tion to  study,  been  laying  the  foundation  of  a  soha  and 
useful  education  in  one  of  the  city  schools,  under  the  super- 
vision of  a  very  worthy  Clergyman,  who  adopted  every 
measure  within  his  power  to  inspire  her  with  correct  feelings 
and  sound  principles.  To  Lemira  had  been  given  more  than 
ordinary  impressibility  of  character,  and  an  intense  love  for 
the  good  and  the  beautiful ;  and  it  need  not  be  said  that  she 
was  an  object  of  interest,  professedly  so  at  least,  to  the  many 
gay  and  fastidious  friends  of  Mrs.  Carlton,  in  whose  welfare, 
spiritual  and  temporal,  they  became  so  suddenly  and  so  very 
deeply  interested. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Carlton,"  say  they,  "you  must  send  this  little 
FAIRY  to  a  more  fashionable  school ;  she  is  the  child  of  Opu- 
lence, her  education  rpust  correspond  with  the  sphere  in 
which  she  is  destined  to  move."  Her  education  is  finished  ! 
The  world  pronounces  her  beautiful — highly  accomplished, 
and  the  parents  scan  her  charms  with  approving  eye.  She 
mingles  in  gay  and  festive  scenes ;  the  Theatre,  the  Ball 
Chamber  to  her  are  an  ideal  paradise  ;  and  to  dress  and  be 
admired  her  ruling  passion. 

But  an  unexpected  change  passes  over  her  volatile  ana 


THE    ONLY    DAUGHTER.  t9T 

proud  spirit ;  she  becomes  more  thoughtful — while  at  times, 
the  sadness  in  that  soft  blue  eye  seems  to  speak  of  a 
troubled  fountain  within.  But  the  cause,  whatever  it  may 
be,  is  yet  shrouded  in  the  deep  stillness  of  her  own  heart ; 
she  affects  gayety  amid  the  adulation  and  excitement  of  the 
glittering  throng.  But,  ah  !  the  smile  that  plays  on  the  lip-, 
is  but  the  mockery  of  joy !  The  change  becomes  more  ap- 
parent, while  concealment  is  no  longer  possible.  Even  the 
impressive  anthem  from  the  distant  chapel,  as  it  falls  upon 
the  ear  so  full  of  pathos,  moves  her  not ;  the  world  has  lost 
its  power  to  charm — its  life-like  visions  of  happiness  have 
fled !  Her  reason  and  her  better  judgment  begin  to  assert 
their  supremacy.  ' 

May  we  not  believe  that  the  angels  watch  over  childhood? 
The  five  years  of  faithful  training  under  the  superintendence 
of  that  kind  Clergyman,  no  doubt  gave  a  correct  bias  to  the 
budding  intellect  of  Lemira.  For  years  these  generous  im- 
pulses were  smouldering  beneath  a  ruinous  load  of  sophistry^ 
yet  they  were  not  extinguished ;  and  being  acted  upon  bj'' 
influences  of  a  similar  character,  became  a  link  in  the  chain 
of  Providence,  to  arrest  her  footsteps  when  rapidly  verging 
a  precipice,  as  fatal,  morally  speaking,  as  that  upon  which 
the  lovely  Sappho  stood,  when  she  sang  her  last  song,  broke 
her  lyre,  and  disappeared  beneath  the  oblivious  wave  that 
washes  far-famed  Leucadia.  And  now  methinks  I  hear  the 
reader  inquiring  for  these  more  immediate  influences,  pro- 
ductive of  so  important  a  change. 

At  the  close  of  an  evening  service,  dispirited  and  heart- 
sickened,  Lemira  returned  home :  she  found  lying  upon  her 
music  book  a  letter  sealed  with  black ;  she  read  it  hastily 
over,  and  exquisitely  painful  was  the  sad  intelligence  it 
contained.  She  retired,  but  not  to  sleep.  At  nine  o'clock 
coffee  was  announced — upon  every  countenance  there  was 
a  shade  of  sadness.  Said  Lemira  to  her  mother,  "I  cannot 
see  company  to  day,  excuse  me  to  all  who  ask  my  presence." 
Lemira  has  sought  her  room.  Sitting  by  the  lattice,  as  seen 
in  the  engraving,  in  pensive  attitude,  with  an  expression  of 


192  TBB    aWLY    DAUGHTBR. 

features  indicative  of  a  heart  capable  of  the  most  acute 
feeling,  she  becomes  absorbed  in  meditation;  her  thoughts 
Qannot  be  supressed,  they  are  uttered  in  soUloquy.  "It  is 
even  so,  my  charming  cousin  is  dead  !  Adelaide,  with  her 
sweet  expressive  countenance,  her  winning  manners,  I  shall 
tee  no  more  !  We  differed  upon  many  points,  yet  how  gentle 
her  spirit  under  provocation,  how  mild  her  reproof.  I  did 
not  think  of  it  at  the  time ;  but  now  that  her  bright  eye  is 
dark  in  death,  how  sorry  am  I  that  I  ever  wounded  her 
deeply  sensitive  spirit,  by  repeated  waywardness  and  opposi- 
tion to  her  requests." 

Did  not  Irviptg  speak  the  heart's  universal  language  when 
he  said  "strew  the  beauties  of  nature  around  the  grave !  for 
it  buries  every  error,  extinguishes  every  resentment.  From 
its  peaceful  bosom  spring  none  but  fond  regrets  and  tender 
recollections  !"  How  often  does  our  heavenly  Father  lead 
the  living  to  reflection  beside  the  peaceful  death-couch  of 
some  loving  heart;  as  with  firm  trust  in  God,  the  disem- 
bodied soul  plumes  its  wing  for  an  ethereal  flight !  'Twas 
even  so  at  this  time.  For  two  years  previous,  the  gentle 
Adelaide  had  been  an  inmate  of  her  uncle's  dwelling.  She 
was  a  devoted  Christian ;  unwearied  had  been  her  endeavors 
to  bring  her  thoughtless  but  beloved  cousin  to  tread  with  her 
the  path  of  self-denial  and  devotion  to  God.  These  eflforts 
gave  rise  to  aversions  and  preferances,  approved  by  reason 
and  conscience,  but  in  which  the  proud  heart  of  Lemira  was 
unwilling  to  acquiesce. 

By  the  exercise  of  moral  courage,  the  frown,  the  scornful 
smile,  the  cold  neglect,  were  met  with  sweetness  and  for- 
bearance, or  the  silent  eloquence  of  a  tear.  The  thrilling 
contents  of  thnt  letter  brought  back  the  impressive  glance, 
the  tone  of  tenderness,  with  singular  power  blending  them 
in  living  lines  upon  the  record  of  memory.  She  learned  how 
foil  of  hope  and  comfort  was  that  death-bed  scene — how  im- 
passioned the  prayers  that  ascended  in  her  behalf ;  and  the 
superiority  of  that  system  over  every  other,  that  enables  the 
young  spirit  to  look  back  without  regret  upon  a  bright  but 


THE    ONLY    DAUGHTER.  19^ 

receding  world,  and  forward  to  the  grave  with  silent  ecstacy, 
as  victor  over  all  its  terrors,  through  Him  "  that  hath  the 
power  of  death !"  And  in  that  moment  of  heartfelt  gratitude, 
in  the  hidden  recesses  of  her  better  feelings,  she  made  a 
voluntary  relinquishment  of  the  splendid  vanities  of  life,  and 
determined,  by  the  aid  of  Heaven,  to  devote  herself  to  its 
claims  and  service.  Weeks  and  months  rolled  on — and 
from  that  hour  Lemira  was  a  changed  being — changed  in  all 
her  views  and  feelings.  For  in  the  depths  of  her  once  dark 
spirit  light  had  arisen !  that  same  light  that  caused  the 
spirit's  smile  to  linger  upon  the  marble  features  of  the  depar- 
ted Adelaide,  whom  she  loved  in  life  and  mourned  in  death. 
Lemira  became  an  example  worthy  of  imitation;  active 
and  self-sacrificing,  her  ambition  was  to  do  good;  and  it 
was  not  in  vain.  Her  parents  were  led  to  feel  the  weight 
of  an  offended  Maker's  wrath,  and  fly  to  the  cross  for  refuge. 
The  grave  has  opened  since  then,  and  has  received  these 
beloved  parents ;  but  they  died  in  full  assurance  of  a  blissful 
life,  beyond  the  range  of  death.  Most  acutely  did  Lemira 
feel  this  bereavement,  while  she  became  more  deeply  than 
ever  impressed,  that  it  was  her  imperious  duty  to  make  an 
entire  consecration  of  her  all  to  God  :  her  influence,  powers 
of  mind,  acquisitions,  and  her  AMPLE  FORTUNE.  She  did  so — 
and  God  accepted  the  offering.  She  was  addressed  by  a 
devoted  and  able  Minister  of  the  Gospel,  who  was  about  to 
embark  for  a  foreign  land,  with  a  message  of  mercy  to  the 
benighted  heathen.  They  were  congenial  in  spirit,  and  they 
became  one  in  heart.  Lemira, said  the  devoted  missionary, 
"the  allurements  of  this  world  are  not  mine  to  offer  you; 
this  hand,  and  this  loving  heart  are  all  my  store ;  will  you 
accept  them  ?  and  in  accepting  them,  relinquish  all  beside  ? 
home  and  friends  and  country  !  to  cheer  me  in  exile,  for  the 
love  you  bear  to  me,  and  to  our  common  Savior  ?"  Lemira 
was  deeply  affected  ;  for  some  moments,  silence  was  the  only 
response  ;  recovering  her  self-possession,  she  commenced 
singing  in  a  calm  sweet  voice,  accompanied  by  the  piano, 
the  following  stanzas  of  a  well  knowTi  and  beautiful  hymn:- — 


194  THE    ONLY    DAUGHTER. 

"  Home  :  thy  joys  are  passing  lovely, 
Joys  no  stranger  heart  can  tell ; 
Happy  home !  as  I  have  proved  thee. 
Can  I,  can  I  say — farewell  ? 

Can  I  leave  thee — 
Far  in  heathen  lands  to  dwell  ? 

"  Yea,  I  hasten  from  you  gladly, 
From  the  scenes  I  love  eo  well. 
Far  away,  ye  billows,  bear  me ; 
Lovely,  native  land  farewell ! 
C  Pleased  I  leave  thee — 

Far  in  heathen  lands  to  dwell." 

And  now,  my  dear  reader,  are  you  in  the  spring-time  of 
being,  a  member  of  Christ's  kingdom?  What  have  been 
your  efforts  for  its  universal  triumph.  Are  you  ambitious 
to  be  useful  ?  Or  have  you,  like  a  stray  lamb,  wandered  far 
from  the  fold?  and  do  you  blend  with  religion  the  amuse- 
ments of  the  world  ? 

The  darkened  wanderer  from  God  may  find  a  refuge 
beneath  the  Cross  !  One  of  these  two,  kind  reader,  you  can 
certainly  imitate.  Does  the  world  charm  you,  and  are  you 
disposed  to  listen  to  its  siren  voice,  and  leave  thoughts  Hke 
Jiese,  to  dwell  upon  in  the  shade  of  coming  years  ?  Do  it 
not! 

"  Love  may  write  his  name  upon  thy  marble  brow. 

And  linger  in  thy  curls  of  jet ; 
'  The  light  spring-flower  may  scarcely  bow. 

Beneath  thy  tread ;  and  yet — 

Without  the  Spirit's  meeker  grace,  thou  art 

A  lighter  thing  than  vanity.' 


'      OUR    BODIES. 

We  cannot  keep  our  bodies  long  here,  they  are  corrupti- 
ble bodies,  and  will  tumble  into  dust ;  we  must  part  with 
them  for  a  while,  and  if  ever  we  expect  and  desire  a  happy 
meeting  again,  we  must  use  them  with  modesty  and  rever- 
ence now.     Our  bodies  are  the  temples  of  the  soul. 


FLOWERS    AMID    THE    CORN.  106 


THE  FLOWERS  AMID  THE  CORN. 

TRANSLATED   FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

At  the  time  when  the  harvest  was  near,  a  father  and  his 
children  walked  by  a  cornfield.  The  ears  crowded  closely 
together,  were  bent  to  the  earth  from  the  weight  of  the 
grain,  and  the  sweet  blue  flowers  that  grew  between  them 
alone  held  their  heads  erect. 

The  children  had  asked  and  been  answered  many  ques- 
tions, when  William  who  for  some  time  had  walked  on  in 
silence,  drew  nearer  to  his  father  and  said.  "  It  is  singular, 
and  why  is  it,  that  God  has  placed  these  flowers  here  amid 
the  corn  ?  I  have  tried  to  think,  but  with  all  my  pains  I 
cannot  find  it  out." 

**  And  still  the  question  is  not  a  very  difficult  one"  replied 
the  father ;  but  upon  observing  that  the  boy  was  grieved  at 
being  unable  to  comprehend  it,  he  continued.  "  The  ears, 
sprouting  as  you  know,  from  little  grains,  which  the  farmer 
strewed  upon  the  Earth  in  the  autumn,  have  grown,  until 
they  have  become  tall  and  lusty  like  a  wood,  and  when, 
after  much  care  and  labor,  they  are  gathered  into  the 
barns,  they  are  then  manufactured  into  nourishment  for 
man.  Now,  man,  when  he  sees  them  stand  in  such  pomp 
upon  the  field,  might  easily  imagine  that  all  this  was  the 
work  of  his  hands,  and  that  he  stood  in  need  of  no  assistance 
from  any  other  source.  This  would  be  erroneous,  nay  sin- 
ful indeed.  Therefore  God,  who  by  a  thousand  signs  and 
emblems,  is  ever  ready  to  remind  us  of  him,  and  of  his  kind- 
ness and  love,  has  clothed  these  sweet  flowers  with  the  ves- 
ture of  the  blue  heavens,  and  placed  them  among  the  corn^ 
that  we  mortals  may  remember  that  all  our  blessings  come 
to  us  from  above,  from  his  paternal  hand.  He  who  can  read 
this  emblem  will  never  pass  a  field  of  corn,  without  lifting 
his  eyes  in  gratitude  to  Heaven,  and  without  saying  in  his 


196  FLOWERS  AMID  THE  CORN. 

heart.     "  Ah,  all  the  labor  and  device  of  man's  hand  would 
never  attain  its  end  without  a  blessing  from  above  !" 

Thus  spoke  the  father  to  his  children,  and  they  glanced 
joyfully  from  the  sweet  blue  flowers  toward  heaven,  and 
from  heaven  down  again  upon  the  flowers  ;  and  they  plucked 
many  of  them  to  bring  them  to  their  mother,  in  .order  to 
repeat  to  her  the  instructive  lesson. 


RUTH   GLEANING. 

She  stood  breast-higfa  amid  the  com, 
Clasp'd  by  the  golden  light  of  mom. 
Like  the  sweet-heart  gf  the  Sun, 
Who  many  a  gloAving  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush. 
Deeply  ripened : — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  bom, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  com. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
"Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  long  lashes  veil'd  a  light, 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim. 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ; — 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks : — 

Sure,  I  said,  Heav'n  did  not  mean. 
Where  I  reap  thou  should'st  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

Hood. 


INFLUENCE    OP    TEACHERS.  197 

Original 

INFLUENCE  OF  TEACHERS. 

BY      EEV.      A.      WALKER. 

"  Take  your  seat  and  learn  the  rules,"  says  Mr.  P.  to  a 
sprightly  intelligent  looking  boy,  who  had  come  to  him  with 
his  slate  in  hand  and  arithmetic  open  at  simple  addition, 
with  the  request,  "  will  you  show  me  how  to  do  this  sum  ?" 

Little  John  had  never  carried  a  slate  to  school  before, 
and  there  were  in  those  days  no  "children's  arithmetics." 
He  had  made  rapid  progress  in  the  studies  he  had  under- 
taken— uniformly  stood  at  the  head  of  his  class  in  spelling — 
had  learned  "  Cumming's  Geography  "  almost  by  heart,  and 
had  made  considerable  progress  in  learning  to  write.  After 
repeated  solicitations,  he  at  length  prevailed  upon  his  father 
to  allow  him  to  commence  a  new  study ;  and  a  full  half 
hour  before  school-time,  he  might  have  been  seen  with  his 
new  slate  and  arithmetic  under  his  arm,  walking  towards 
the  school-house  as  proudly  as  a  militia  captain,  who,  for  the 
first  time  sees  a  sword  dangling  by  his  side,  and  feels  the 
pressure  of  a  Bonaparte  hat  upon  his  head. 

As  soon  as  school  commences,  and  he  has  read  with  his 
class,  he  begins  to  examine  his  new  book  in  earnest.  But 
at  the  very  outset,  he  is  puzzled  with  language  that  he  can- 
not comprehend. 

He  sets  down  the  figures  of  the  first  sum  in  addition,  but 
not  knowing  what  further  to  do,  he  goes  to  his  instructor  to 
be  "showed,"  and  received  the  reply  above  given  in  a  harsh 
and  peremptory  tone, "  Take  your  seat,  and  learn  the  rules." 

Mr.  P.  was  by  no  means  a  cross  or  a  crabbed  man ;  but 
just  at  this  time  he  was  otherwise  engaged,  and  besides  he  had 
been  irritated  by  some  misconduct  of  the  other  scholars; 
and  thinking  little  of  the  effect  of  such  a  repulse  upon  the 
mind  of  the  boy,  he  spoke  as  he  did,  because  it  was  th^ 
most  ready  way  to  get  rid  of  him. 


198  INFLUENCE    OF    TEACHERS. 

John's  countenance  fell  at  once.  He  returns  to  his  seat 
sad  and  disheartened.  He  again  looks  at  the  rules  of  addi- 
tion laid  down,  but  not  understanding  them,  he  becomes 
discouraged,  and  throws  by  his  arithmetic  for  something 
which  he  can  understand.  He  has  acquired  a  distaste  for 
the  study  which  he  will  not  soon  overcome.  Years  pass 
on,  and  his  parents  are  often  heard  to  lament  that  "  John," 
though  bright  enough  in  every  thing  else,  "is  very  dull  in 
figures." 

Their  other  son  James  commenced  the  study  of  arithmetic 
a  few  years  after  under  a  different  instructor. 

Mr.  R.,  who  had  been  employed  to  teach  the  district 
school,  loved  his  business,  and  loved  to  see  the  eyes  of  his 
pupils  sparkle  with  delight  as  they  acquired  a  new  idea,  or 
succeeded  in  overcoming  a  difficulty.  When  he  saw  James 
looking  at  his  new  book,  he  went,  sat  down  by  his  side,  and 
in  a  few  words  explained  to  him  the  mode  of  operation 
under  the  first  rule,  and  set  him  to  work. 

James  with  the  light  he  had  received,  found  that  ne  was 
able  to  understand  his  new  study.  He  could  not  only  work 
out  the  sums  given,  but  could  see  the  reason  of  the  various 
steps  in  the  operation.  He  was  delighted  with  it,  and  of 
course  made  rapid  progress.  And  it  soon  began  to  be 
acknowledged  by  all  that  James  had  a  "  genius  for  mathe- 
matics." 

Probably  these  parents  never  even  surmised  that  the 
instructors  of  their  school  had  any  thing  to  do  with  forming 
the  intellectual  tastes  and  habits  of  their  children  ;  and  yet 
it  was  owing  mainly  to  the  first  impressions  received  from 
the  different  conduct  of  these  instructors,  that  one  of  their 
children  loved  and  made  rapid  progress  in  the  science  of 
numbers,  while  the  other,  from  his  youth  up,  hated  the  sight 
of  anything  that  looked  like  a  mathematical  problem.  The 
feelings  of  youth  with  respect  to  any  other  study,  and  the 
progress  they  make  in  it,  may  be  affected  in  the  same  way. 

Did  the  parents  of  our  country  know  how  powerful  and 
lasting  the  influence  exerted  upon  children  by  their  teachers, 


^  INFLUENCE    OF    TEACHERS.  190 

there  would  not  be  that  apathy  which  now  exists  in  respect 
to  the  intellectual  and  moral  character  of  those  who  are  em- 
ployed as  instructors  of  our  common  schools.  Parents 
would  wish  to  KNOW  something  of  the  man  who  was  to  have 
the  care  of  their  children,  and  would  demand  one  who  was 
not  only  competent  as  to  knowledge,  but  who  was  *'  apt  to 
teach,"  who  loved  the  employment,  and  withal  had  a  sweet- 
ness of  disposition  that  would  gain  the  affection  of  youth,  and 
a  temper  that  would  be  unruffled  by  any  of  the  little  vexa- 
tions of  a  school-room. 

And  Teachers,  with  right  views  of  this  subject,  would  feel 
that  there  is  a  responsibility  attached  to  their  calling,  of 
which  very  few  seem  to  have  any  adequate  idea. 

Remarks. — The  influence  of  well  qualified  teachers  is 
not  only  deep,  but  often  lasting  as  hfe.  Never  shall  I  forget 
the  influence  which  one  of  my  early  teachers  had  over  me — 
indeed  to  this  day,  although  it  is  thirty  years  since  I  was  his 
pupil,  I  have  a  most  profound  respect  for  him.  He  was 
amply  qualified  for  his  place  as  a  good  scholar.  He  was  a 
gentleman  and  a  Christian.  He  spared  no  pains  to  make 
the  pupil  all  that  was  reasonably  expected  by  his  parents. 
He  seldom  punished,  and  when  he  did,  the  school  saw  that 
the  teacher  suffered  more,  in  his  feelings,  than  did  the 
chastised  scholar  himself. 

I  remember  on  one  occasion  his  calling  up  a  bad  boy,  and 
after  he  had  talked  with  him  and  found  that  the  feelings  of 
the  little  offender  had  yielded,  he  said, "  my  dear  little  friend 
I  thought  I  must  punish  you,  but  I  cannot  do  so  now,  as  I 
am  sure  you  mean  to  be  good  ;"  as  he  said  this,  tears  fell  from 
his  eyes,  and  many  of  the  scholars  wept.  This  manifesta- 
tion of  paternal  kindness  and  sympathy  had  more  influence 
over  the  whole  school  than  all  the  rods  in  the  world.  He 
soon  became  so  much  beloved  that  his  scholars  felt  gratified 
to  have  it  in  their  power  to  do  him  any  service.  We  want 
such  teachers  as  this,  for  the  5,000,000  of  our  rising  genera- 
tion, that  are  taking  an  impression  for  life,  if  not  for  eternity, 
from  the  example  and  influence  of  their  teachers. —  Ed. 


200  *•***>        EPITAPH. 


A   BEAUTIFUL   EPITAPH. 

In  Trinity  Church-yard  there  is  an  inscription  on  a  tomb 
qjB^gularly  beautiful,  that  we  cannot  forbear  recording  it, 
a!na  the  emotions  it  awakened  in  our  bosoms.  The  tomb  is 
an  oblong  pile  of  masonry,  surmounted  by  a  slab  stone,  on 
which  are  deeply  cut  the  following  words : 

My  Mother, 
"  The  trumpet  shall  sound,  and  the  dead  shall  rise." 

There  are  no  other  letters  or  characters  to  be  found  on 
the  pile.  If  there  is  one  inscription  in  the  thousand  lan- 
guages that  are,  or  have  been,  of  earth,  fitted  to  retain  its  sub- 
lime meaning  through  every  period  of  time,  up  to  the 
resurrection  morning,  it  is  this.  The  writer  seemed  aw^are 
that  names  would  be  forgotten,  and  titles  fade  from  the 
memory  of  the  world ;  he  therefore  engraved  the  name  by 
which  he  first  knew  her  who  gave  him  birth,  on  the  stone, 
and  the  dearest  of  all  names,  that  of  mother,  shall  sound  a 
thrill  through  the  heart  of  every  one  who  may  lean  over 
that  monumental  pile.  If  any  shall  wish  to  know  more  of 
her  who  had  a  child  to  engrave  her  most  endearing  name 
upon  a  rock,  he  is  sublimely  referred  to  the  sounding  of  the 
trumpet  and  the  rising  of  the  dead,  when  he  may  know  all. 

Naught  but  this  affectionate  appellative,  and  this  sublime 
scripture  truth,  is  inscribed  upon  the  monumental  stone.  No 
name  is  recorded  there — only  the  endearing  appellation 
of  Mother — which  touches  a  chord  in  every  heart  associated 
with  the  sublime  and  impressive  scenes  of  the  Resurrection, 
meets  the  eye  of  the  observer  as  he  leans  over  the  venera- 
ble pile.  The  son  who  consecrated  this  touching  memorial 
of  his  affection  and  his  hopes,  joyfully  points  the  reader  to 
the  Archangel's  trump  for  the  solution  of  the  mystery  of  the 
nameless  epitaph. 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


THE    WIDOW    AND   HER   SON. 

During  my  residence  in  the  country,  I  used  frequently  to 
attend  at  the  old  village  church.  Its  shadowy  aisles^ts 
mouldering  monuments,  its  dark  oaken  panelling,  all  tctIp 
rend  with  the  gloom  of  departed  years,  seemed  to  fit  it  for 
the  haunt  of  solemn  meditation.  A  Sunday,  too,  in  the 
country,  is  so  holy  in  its  repose, — such  a  pensive  quiet  reigns 
over  the  face  of  nature,  that  every  restless  passion  is  charm- 
ed down,  and  we  feel  all  the  natural  religion  of  the  soul 
gently  springing  up  within  us. 

"  Sweet  day,  ao  pure,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky !" 

I  cannot  lay  claim  lo  the  merit  of  being  a  devout  man ; 
but  there  are  feelings  that  visit  me  in  a  country  churchy 
amid  the  beautiful  serenity  of  nature,  which  I  experience 
nowhere  else ;  and  if  not  a  more  religious,  I  think  I  am  a 
better,  man  on  Sunday,  than  on  any  other  day  of  the  seven. 

Rut  in  this  church  I  felt  myself  continually  thrown  back 
upon  the  world,  by  the  frigidity  of  the  poor  worms  around 
me.  The  only  being  that  seemed  thoroughly  to  feel  the 
humble  and  prostrate  piety  of  a  true  Christian,  was  a  poor 
decrepit  old  woman,  bending  under  the  weight  of  years  and 
infirmities.  She  bore  the  traces  of  something  better  than 
abject  poverty.  The  fingerings  of  decent  pride  were  visible 
in  her  appearance.  Her  dress,  though  humble  in  the  ex- 
treme, was  scrupulously  clean.  Some  trivial  respect,  too, 
had  been  awarded  her,  for  she  did  not  take  her  seat  among 
the  village  poor,  but  sat  alone  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 
She  seemed  to  have  survived  a  hve,  all  friendship,  all 
society ;  and  to  have  nothing  left  her  but  the  hopes  of  hea- 
ven. When  I  saw  her  feebly  rising  and  bending  her  aged 
foran  in  prayer,  habitually  conning  her  prayer-book,  which 
the  palsied  hand  and  failing  eyes  could  not  permit  her  to 


202  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SOIf. 

read,  but  which  she  evidently  knew  by  heart,  I  felt  persua- 
ded that  the  faltering  voice  of  that  poor  woman  arose  to 
heaven  far  above  the  responses  of  the  clerk,  the  swell  of  the 
organ,  or  the  chanting  of  the  choir. 

I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches  ;  and  this 
was  so  delightfully  situated,  that  it  frequently  attracted  me. 
ft  stood  on  a  knoll,  round  which  a  small  stream  made  a 
beautiful  bend,  and  then  wound  its  way  through  a  long  reach 
of  soft  meadow  scenery.  The  church  was  surrounded  by 
yew  trees,  which  seemed  almost  coeval  with  itself.  Its  tall 
Gothic  spire  shot  up  lightly  from  among  them,  with  rooks 
and  crows  generally  wheeling  about  it.  I  was  seated  there 
one  still  sunny  morning,  watching  two  laborers  who  were 
digging  a  grave.  They  had  chosen  one  of  the  most  remote 
and  neglected  corners  of  the  church-yard,  where,  by  the 
number  of  nameless  graves  around,  it  would  appear  that  the 
indigent  and  friendless  were  huddled  into  the  earth.  I  was 
told  that  the  new-made  grave  was  for  the  only  son  of  a 
poor  widow.  While  I  was  meditating  on  the  distinctions  of 
wordly  rank,  which  extend  thus  down  into  the  very  dust, 
the  toll  of  the  bell  announced  the  approach  of  the  funeraL 
They  were  the  obsequies  of  poverty,  with  which  pride  ha 
nothing  to  do.  A  coffin  of  the  plainest  materials,  withou 
pall  or  other  covering,  was  borne  by  some  of  the  villagers. 
The  sexton  walked  before  with  an  air  of  cold  indifference. 
There  were  no  mock  mourners  in  the  trappings  of  affected 
woe,  but  there  was  one  real  mourner  who  feebly  tottered 
after  the  corpse.  It  was  the  aged  mother  of  the  deceased 
— the  poor  old  woman  whom  I  had  seen  seated  on  the  steps 
of  the  altar.  She  was  supported  by  a  humble  friend,  who 
was  endeavoring  to  comfort  her.  A  few  of  the  neighboring 
poor  had  joined  the  train,  and  some  of  the  children  of  the 
village  were  running  hand  in  hand,  now  shouting  with  un- 
thinking mirth,  and  now  pausing  to  gaze,  with  childish 
curiosity,  on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  parson 
issued  from  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  surplice,  with 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HEE    SO?I.  203 

prayer-book  in  hand,  and  attended  by  the  clerk.  The  ser- 
vice, however,  was  a  mere  act  of  charity.  The  deceased 
had  been  destitute,  and  the  survivor  was  penniless.  It  was 
shuffled  through,  therefore,  in  form,  but  coldly  and  unfeel- 
ingly. The  well-fed  priest  moved  but  a  few  steps  from  the 
church  door ;  his  voice  could  scarcely  be  heard  at  the 
grave  ;  and  never  did  I  hear  the  funeral  service,  that  sub- 
lime and  touching  ceremony,  turned  into  such  a  frigid  mum- 
mery of  words. 

I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on  the 
ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of  the 
deceased — "  George  Somers,  aged  twenty-six  years."  The 
poor  mother  had  been  assisted  to  kneel  down  at  the  head  of 
it.  Her  withered  hands  were  clasped  as  if  in  prayer  ;  but  I 
could  perceive,  by  a  feeble  rocking  of  the  body,  and  a  con- 
vulsive motion  of  the  lips,  that  she  was  gazing  on  the  last 
relics  of  her  son  with  the  yearnings  of  a  mother's  heart. 

Preparations  were  made  to  deposit  the  coffin  in  the  earth. 
There  was  that  bustling  stir,  which  breaks  so  harshly  on  the 
feelings  of  grief  and  affection :  directions  given  in  the  cold 
tones  of  business ;  the  striking  of  spades  into  sand  and 
gravel ;  which,  at  the  grave  of  those  we  love,  is  of  all  sounds 
the  most  withering.  The  bustle  around  seemed  to  waken 
the  mother  from  a  wretched  reverie.  She  raised  her  glazed 
eyes,  and  looked  about  with  a  faint  wildness.  As  the  men 
approached  with  cords  to  lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave, 
she  wrung  her  hands,  and  broke  into  an  agony  of  grief. 
The  poor  woman  who  attended  her,  took  her  by  ^her  arm, 
endeavored  to  raise  her  from  the  earth,  and  to  ,  w^iisper 
something  like  consolation, — "  Nay,  now — nay,  now — don't 
take  it  so  sorely  to  heart."  She  could  only  shake  her  head, 
and  wring  her  hands,  as  one  not  to  be  comforted. 

As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creaking  of 
the  cord  seemed  to  agonize  her ;  but  when,  on  some  acci- 
dental obstruction,  there  was  a  jostling  of  the  coffin,  all  the 
tenderness  of  the  mother  burst  forth ;  as  if  any  harm  could 
come  to  him  who  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  worldly 
Sjuffering. 


204  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

I  could  see  no  more — my  heart  swelled  into  my  throat— 
my  eyes  filled  with  tears — I  felt  as  if  I  were  acting  a  bar- 
barous part  in  standing  by  and  gazing  idly  on  this  scene  of 
maternal  anguish.  I  wandered  to  another  part  of  the 
church-yard,  where  I  remained  until  the  funeral  train  had 
dispersed. 

When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting  the 
grave,  leaving  behind  her  Ihe  remains  of  all  that  was  dear 
to  her  on  earth,  and  returning  to  silence  and  destitution,  my 
heart  ached  for  her.  What,  thought  I,  are  the  distresses  of 
the  rich  ?  They  have  friends  to  soothe — pleasures  to  beguile 
— a  world  to  divert  and  dissipate  their  griefs.  What  are 
the  sorrows  of  the  young  ?  Their  growing  minds  soon  close 
above  the  wound — their  elastic  spirits  soon  rise  beneath  the 
pressure — their  green  and  ductile  affections  soon  twine 
around  new  objects.  But  the  sorrows  of  the  poor,  who  have 
no  outward  appliances  to  soothe — the  sorrows  of  the  aged, 
with  whom  life  at  best  is  but  a  wintry  day,  and  who  can 
look  for  no  after  growth  of  joy — the  sorrows  of  a  widow, 
aged,  solitary,  destitute,  mourning  over  an  only  son,  the  last 
solace  of  her  years  ; — these  are  indeed  sorrows  which  make 
us  feel  the  impotency  of  consolation. 

w.  r. 


ADVICE    TO   YOUNG  MEN. 

Despise  the  vanities  of  that  pride  which  seeks  its  gratifica- 
tion in  a  contempt  of  moral  decorum. 

Be  content  to  keep  within  your  station,  and  adorn  it  by 
the  virtues  which  its  duties  require. 

Never  look  above  you  until  you  are  secure  of  the  ground 
on  which  you  move. 

Let  not  the  specious  professions  of  those,  who  are  too 
great  in  their  own  eyes  to  take  any  trouble  of  being  good  in 
the  eyes  of  others,  deceive  you  out  of  that  humble  minded- 
ness  which  i^  the  main  spring  of  every  just  feeling  and 
worthv  actionj 


I 


THE    MOSS-ROSE. 


A    GEM    OF    HISTORY.  205 

(StHspect  the  frienaship  of  every  one  whose  advice  tends  to 
a\»enate  you  from  those  obligations,  in  the  fulfdling  of  w^hich 
ar^  alimoral  and  social  excellence  :  and  shun  the  company  of 
all  from  whose  hps  you  hear  that  excellence  ridiculed  and 
set  at  naught. 

Make  your  heart  your  happiest  home,  and  you  will  always 
be  in  the  best  company  ;  for  your  thoughts  will  never  drive 
you  into  dissipation,  by  self-reproach. 

Consider  the  wise  as  the  most  honorable  part  of  society, 
and  the  virtuous  as  the  wisest. 

Never  be  ashamed  of  showing  that  you  are  a  Christian, 
if  you  would  not  be  ashamed  of  yourselves  as  men  ;  and  re- 
member that  the  plain  dress  of  unaffected  piety,  is  more  to 
be  prized  than  the  tinsel  glitter  of  worldly  show. 


A   GEM   OF   HISTORY. 

FRATERNAL  LOVE. 

When  Silurus,  king  of  Scythia,  perceived  himself  to  be 
near  his  end,  he  ordered  a  bundle  of  rods  to  be  brought  to 
him  ;  and  then  presenting  it  to  his  eight  sons,  bade  each  of 
them  try  'their  utmost  to  break  it,  without  separating  the 
sticks.  But  when  they  all  replied,  that  it  was  beyond  their 
strehgth,  the  old  monarch  took  the  bundle  himself,  and,  un- 
binding it  in  their  presence,  broke  all  the  rods  before  them, 
one  after  the  other,  with  the  greatest  ease  in  the  world  ; 
thus  instructing  them  in  the  most  fjjimiliar  and  obvious  man- 
ner, that  the  greatest  security  lay  in  their  mutual  harmony 
and  affection;  and  that  they  could  never  be  destroyed  by 
their  enemies,  till  they  furnished  an  opportunity  themselves 
by  their  own  discord  and  animosity. 

Remarks. — Union  is  strength.  Nothing  can  be  more 
beautiful  or  morally  sublime  than  to  see  the  hearts  of  brothers 
cemented  in  love,  united  to  promote  each  other's  interest  and 
honor.  "  Behold,"  says  the  Psalmist, "  what  a  joyful  sight  when 
brethren  dwell  together  in  unity  !  It  is  like  the  fruitful  dew 
of  Hermon,  -whose  pearly  drops  overspread  the  hill  of  Zion." 


206  A  flower's  life  and  lesson. 


Original. 

A   FLOWER'S   LIFE   AND   LESSONS. 

BY     i .     H  .     BIXB  Y. 

"  A  Life  well  spent  is  like  a  Flower." 

Man  lives  to  learn. 
And  he  who  will,  from  humblest  things  may  gain 
Instruction  rich     Let  us  to  Nature  turn, 
It  will  not  be  in  vain. 

Let  us  go  forth 
To  fields  and  woods,  where  she  alone  holds  sway. 
Such  scenes  to  me  have  richer,  greater  worth 
Than  xities,  proud  and  gay — 

There  wealth  may  dwell 
In  marble  palaces,  adorned  by  art. 

And  Luxury  o'er  aU  may  cast  her  spell — 
It  reaches  not  my  heart. 

But  let  me  go 
Where  but  a  simple  flower  meets  my  gaze. 
Its  meek  eye  liiting  up,  though  bending  low. 
It  seems  a  note  of  praise 

In  v/hich  a  mind 
In  unison  with  Nature's  joyiulness — 
Awake  to  kindly  influences  may  find 

Much,  both  to  glad  and  bless. 

To  such  a  heart 
It  teaches  wholesome  lore — Love,  Faith  and  Trust ; 
Have  had,  and  each  well  done  their  fitting  part, 
To  raise  it  from  the  dust. 

In  FAITH  a  grain 
Of  seed  I  placed  within  the  melloAV  earth ; 
The  warm  Sun  shone,  and  fell  the  early  rain, 
And  sooji  it  sprouted  forth. 


A  flower's  life  and  lesson.  207 

I  saw,  each  noon, 
How  bud  by  bud  it  gained  and  grew  apace — 
Leaf  after  leaf  came  forth  and  spread,  till  soon 
It  wore  a  form  of  grace. 

I  saw  outburst 
A  stem  whose  buds  contained  the  swelling  flower ; 
It  flourished  well, — I  watched  it  from  the  first 
Unfolding  more  each  hour. 

My  eyes  at  last 
Were  gladdened  by  the  sight  so  long  delayed — 
Rich  perfume  'round  the  beauteous  flower  cast 
And  all  its  sweets  displayed. 

Alone  to  me 
Breathed  not  its  fragrance, — but  the  dewy  air, 
And  bee,  and  butterfly  made  calls  to  see 
What  sweets  were  hidden  there. 

But  ah !  "as  fleet 
As  it  was  fair"  the  being  of  my  flower. 
For  scarce  did  I  enjoy  its  odor  sweet, 
For  one  swift-pinioned  hour. 

Soon  it  was  gone. 
Its  fair  leaves  shaken  from  the  parent  stem 
Lay  scattered  low, — sacredly,  one  by  one 
Did  I  up-gather  them. 

Since  then  to  earth 
Have  crumbled  stalk  and  leaf  in  dust  away. 
From  which  fair  flowers  yet  may  have  their  birth 
And  live  their  little  day. 

Its  WORK  was  ioae — 
Earth  had  been  gladdened  by  the  flower  fair. 
And  man  was  taught  that  He  who  gave  it  sun 
And  dew,  o'er  all  has  care. 

I  saw  all  thisj 
As  daily  walked  I  forth,  at  noon,  when  free 
From  toil,  with  books  to  have  an  hour's  bliss 
Beneath  a  spreading  tree. 


4 


208  THE    YOUTH    OF    NATIONS. 

And  thus  I  thought — 
I^t  me  from  this  learn  still  to  be  content — 
Whate'er  on  Earth  may  be  my  present  lot, 
'Tis  that  which  God  hath  sent. 

Let  me  fulfil 
The  end  for  which  He  has  my  life  designed. 
E'er  ready  be  to  work  his  bight-wise  will. 
With  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind. 

Though,  flower!  like  thine 
Brief  be  my  life's  day — let  its  work  be  done, 
That  "  perfect  as  a  star"  its  deeds  may  shine 
A  light,  perhaps,  to  one. 

Such  thoughts  as  these 
Rise,  when  I  look  at  evening's  hallowed  hour. 
Upon  the  withered,  but  yet  fragrant  leaves 
Of  that  leaf-lessoned  flower. 


THE   YOUTH   OF  NATIONS. 

In  the  old  age  and  degeneracy  of  nations,  there  is  a  coming 
decrepitude  of  mind,  of  energy,  of  genius,  of  all  that  consti- 
tutes worth  and  character  in  nations.  Man  is  a  different 
being  then.  His  very  blood  seems  tainted.  If  mind  is  not 
perished,  it  is  devoted  to  trifling  and  not  to  utility.  If  genius 
lives,  it  is  exercised  for  little  else  than  the  purposes  of  luxury 
and  indolence.  Rome,  Egypt,  all  Asia,  are  examples.  Hope- 
less, then,  almost  hopeless,  is  any  attempt  to  help  man  in  his 
decline,  and  arrest  the  downward  progress  of  a  nation  which 
has  reached  its  summit,'  and  commenced  the  downward  and 
dreadful  march  of  degeneracy.  History  lacks  example  of 
the  resurrection  of  a  nation  once  gone  down  to  the  tomb  of 
its  glory.  Other  nations  come  in  upon  its  soil,  perhaps — 
plant  their  standards — commence  their  upward  woi'k — catch 
something  of  the  inspiration  of  greatness  from  the  grandeur 
and  glory  and  refinement  of  the  very  temples  Tind  tombs 
which  they  despoil ;  and  rise  to  commendable  manliness  on 
the  ashes  of  departed  glory.  This  is  common.  But  the 
downhill  course  of  blood  is  never  arrested.  Such  is  history. 
Its  tale  may  be  sad,  but  its  lesson  is  deeply  instructive. 


MAMMOTH   \yEALTH.  209 


MAMMOTH   WEALTH. 

JOHN   JACOB  ASTOR. 

The  following  is  given  in  the  estimate  of  Mr.  Astor's  im- 
maise  wealth  in  the  book  of  the  '  Rich  Men  of  New  York.* 
It  says  that  those  knowing  his  affairs  best,  place  it  at 
$30,000,000,  and  some  as  high  even  as  $50,000,000.  His  in- 
come on  a  moderate  estimate,  must  be  82,000,000  a  year,  or 
8166,000  a  month,  which  is  about  845,000  a  week,  85,790  a 
day,  8240  an  hour,  and  84  a  minute.  Mr.  Astor  has  made  a 
donation  of  8350,000  for  a  library  in  New  York,  the  interest 
of  which  is  to  be  expended  in  employing  agents  to  purchase 
books,  and  in  the  erection  of  a  building.  Mr.  Cogswell,  late 
editor  of  the  New  York  Review,  is  the  agent  and  librarian. 

We  do  not  believe  Mr.  Astor's  wealth  to  be  overstated  in 
the  above  paragraph.  Since  the  death  of  Arkwright,  in 
England,  Mr.  Astor  has  been  the  richest  commoner  living 
in  the  Christian  world.  He  was  richer  than  Girard  several 
years  before  the  demise  of  the  latter.  When  Girard  died, 
Mr.  Astor  inquired  "  How  much  did  he  leave  ?"  "  Seven- 
teen millions,"  was  the  reply.  "That  won't  do — that  won't 
do,"  said  Mr.  Astor,  shaking  his  head  and  referring  doubt- 
less to  the  comparison,  which  had  been  instituted  between 
Girard  and  himself.  •* 

Mr.  Astor's  wealth  has  increased  enormously  of  late  years. 
The  leases  on  his  real  estate  in  different  parts  of  New  York 
City,  (the  lots  having  been  originally  bought  by  him,  subject 
to  leases,  for  different  terms  of  years,)  are  expiring  every 
<lay,  and  his  income  thereby  enlarged  by  thousands.  Mr. 
Astor  is  not  that  niggard  of  his  property,  which  he  is  some- 
times represented.  He  bestows  a  great  deal  in  charities. 
He  is  the  benefactor  of  several  benevolent  societies.  He 
gives  away  several  considerable  sums  of  money  privately. 


210  MAMMOTH    WEALTH. 

He  is  most  generous  and  liberal  to  the  members  of  his  own 
family.  He  is  fond  of  literary  men.  Washington  Irving  is 
his  intimate  friend,  and  has  been,  we  learn,  named  as  one  of 
his  executors.  To  be  the  executor  of  such  an  estate  as  that 
of  Mr.  Astor  is  the  next  thing  to  being  an  heir.  When  Mr. 
Irving  went  away  as  Minister  to  the  Court  of  Madrid,  he 
could  not  have  expected  to  find  Mr.  Astor  living  on  his  re- 
turn. But  the  venerable  old  gentleman  still  sui'vives  to 
greet  the  author  of  "  Astoria,"  when  he  once  more  comes 
back  to  the  city  of  the  Knickerbockers.  Mr.  Irving  will 
arrive  during  the  coming  summer.  Upon  him  will  doubtless 
devolve  the  task  of  writing  Mr.  Astor's  life ;  a  most  instruc- 
tive and  interesting  volume  would  it  be. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  the  poet — most  worthy  is  he  of  the 
name ! — has  been  for  many  years  employed  by  John  Jacob 
Astor,  and  he  is  still  in  William  B.  Astor's  office. 

Mr.  Cogswell,  whose  name  is  mentioned  in  the  foregoing 
paragraph,  is  also  a  close  friend  of  Mr.  Astor.  He  is  one  of 
the  most  learned  men  in  the  countiy,  and  eminently  capable 
of  taking  charge  of  the  magnificent  library,  for  the  establish- 
ment of  which  the  testator  has  appropriated  $350,000.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  the  donation  will  be  increased  to  half  a 
million.  With  this  sum  a  collection  of  rare  and  valuable 
books  can  be  made,  which  will  do  honor  to  the  metropolis. 
Mr.  Astor  has  very  judiciously  limited  the  expenditure  on 
the  edifice  for  the  libraiy  at  sixty  thousand  dollars  ;  so  that 
there  is  no  danger  of  the  bequest  being  perverted  from  its 
original  intention,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Girard  College. 


It  may  be  of  infinite  use  to  establish  in  our  minds  a  strong 
and  habitual  sense  of  that  first  and  great  commandment, 
"  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart,  and 
with  all  thy  mind,  and  with  all  thy  soul,  and  with  all  thy 
strength."  This  passion,  operative  and  vigorous  in  its  very 
nature,  like  a  master  spring,  would  set  in  motion,  and  maintain 
in  action  all  the  complicated  movements  of  the  human  soul. 


THE    christian's    PILGRIMAGE.  211 


O  lig  i  nal. 


THE  CHRISTIAN'S  PILGRIMAGE  IN  THE  NIGHT, 
AND  HIS  REST  IN  THE  DAY. 

BY     M.      S.     BULLIONS. 

This  world  is  the  Christian's  sojouming-place,  and  the 
time  he  spends  here  is  a  dark  and  dismal  night.  When  this 
night  is  the  brightest,  it  is  ihumined  only  by  a  few  scattered 
stars. 

Let  us  place  ourselves  on  yonder  lofty  eminence,  and  look 
down  upon  that  Christian  Pilgrim,  as  he  wends  his  way 
along  the  narrow  path  beneath  us.  First,  take  a  survey  of 
the  path  itself — See  ! — it  is  dark  and  narrow  and  full  of 
thorns,  and  observe  the  numerous  by-paths,  so  smooth  and 
so  delightful  to  the  eye,  and  see  how  they  all  lead  downward, 
and  at  last  vanish  from  our  sight. 

The  stars  are  shining  brightly,  and  amidst  the  gloom  he 
can  clearly  see  the  path.  Nor,  does  he  commence  his  pil- 
grimage ALONE.  Two  white-robed  forms  are  beside  him, 
ready  to  guide  him  amid  all  the  darkness.  The  one  is  Faith, 
the  other  Hope.  Now,  with  his  companions,  he  starts  in  his 
course,  eager  and  full  of  expectation,  and  dreaming  of  no 
impediment.  Bat  see  that  dark  cloud  rising  beneath  our 
feet,  an4  spreading  its  black  curtain  quite  over  the  head  of 
our  Pilgrim.  It  is  the  cloud  of  affliction,  sent  from  God  to 
try  his  confidence  in  his  guides.  He  falters  not,  however, 
and  although  the  path  is  entirely  hidden  from  his  view,  he 
grnsps  his  companions  more  firmly  by  the  hands,  and  soon  he 
emerges,  his  step  more  elastic,  his  eye  brighter,  and  his  voice 
clearer  as  he  goes  on,  singing  "  Glory  to  God,  for  he  hath 
delivered  me  out  of  all  mine  atllictions." 

But  now  he  comes  to  one  of  those  smooth  by-paths:  he 
stops  as  he  approaches  it.     He  looks  upon  the  guide-board, 


212  THE  christian's  pilgrimage. 

and  reads  the  announcement,  "  The  road  to  Happiness,"  and 
thus  he  soUloquises  with  himself.  *•  Surely  this  is  the  road 
to  happiness :  how  smooth  and  delightful  is  the  path !  how 
fragrant  are  the  flowers  that  bloom  on  its  borders;  how 
delightfully  yonder  stream  murmurs,  and  how  beautifully  those 
birds  sing.  Yes!  this  is  the  road  to  bliss.  Farewell  ye 
rocks  and  thorns  and  briars,  which  have  hitherto  obstructed 
my  course.  I  shall  be  happy  now,  for  I  have  found  a 
pleasant  way."  Thus  he  speaks  and  moves  on,  his  guides  in 
vain  solicit  him  to  return.  They  tell  him  it  is  the  way 
by  which  Satan  allures  to  ruin,  but  he  heeds  thein  not,  all 
his  thoughts  are  on  the  present  beauties  of  the  way. 

The  path  is  pleasant  for  a  while :  there  are  no  obstructions 
and  no  difficulties,  but  soon  darkness  thickens  around,  and . 
there  is  no  guide  with  him.  He  gropes  along,  and  soon  finds 
himself  on  the  verge  of  an  awful  precipice.  One  step  for- 
ward will  plunge  him  into  a  dark  abyss.  He  cannot  go 
back,  for  there  is  no  one  to  direct  his  footsteps.  Alone,  he 
sits  down  and  mourns  over  his  sad  fate ;  but  lo  1  in  his 
deepest  despair,  he  sees  through  the  thick  gloom  his  guides 
approaching.  They  have  not  deserted  him,  although  he  would 
fain  have  deserted  them.  He  seizes  joyfully  their  hands, 
and  eagerly  follows  as  they  lead  him  back  to  the  same  old 
rugged  pathway. 

But  we  cannot  follow  our  Christian  through  all  his  journey, 
to  describe  all  the  clouds  which  envelop  him,  and  to  point 
out  all  the  by-paths  at  which  he  hesitates.  But  let  us  look 
forward  to  the  end  of  his  journey.  The  doubts  and  misgiv- 
ings of  his  own  heart,  the  taunts  and  jeers  and  mockeries  of 
the  world,  the  sufferings  and  afflictions  and  disasters  of  life, 
have  all  beclouded  his  way ;  but,  with  a  firm  trust  in  his 
guides,  he  has  emerged  from  them  all  with  brighter  hopes, 
and  has  found  that "  these  light  afflictions  have  been  working 
out  for  him  a  far  more  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of 
glory."  The  allurements  of  the  world,  and  the  temptations 
of  Satan,  under  all  their  varied  forms,  would  have  led  him 
away  from  the  narrow  path,  but  he  has  found  out  by  bitter 


THE    christian's    PILGRIMAGE.  213 

experience,  that  the  ways  of  sin,  however  pleasant  and 
deUghtful,  are  but  attractive  roads  to  Death. 

And  now  he  is  fast  approaching  a  dark  and  dismal  valley. 
Clouds  are  hanging  over  it,  heavy  and  black,  and  almost  im- 
penetrable ;  and  although  he  has  passed  through  much  dark- 
ness, he  dreads  its  deeper  shades,  and  clings  tremblingly  and 
with  fear  to  his  faithful  guides.  Faith  bids  him  trust  in  God. 
Hope  tells  him  his  pilgrimage  is  nearly  over,  and  that  the 
darkest  night  will  be  succeeded  by  the  brightest  day. 

He  descends  into  the  dark  valley.  As  he  approaches  its 
extremity,  O,  see  the  light  which  bursts  upon  his  vision ! 
hear  the  celestial  strains  of  melting  music  !  See  the  King  all- 
glorious,  and  all-gracious  with  the  crown  of  life  in  his  hand. 
The  Pilgrim's  eye  brightens  with  joy — he  rushes  on — he 
enters  the  Celestial  city — he  receives  the  crown  of  glory — he 
puts  on  the  garb  of  immortality.  From  a  sinful  worm  he 
has  become  a  pure  saint.  From  a  companion  of  sinners  he 
has  become  a  companion  of  angels, — he  has  entered  into  his 
REST  in  the  heavens.  How  light  do  his  trials  appear  when 
compared  with  the  glories  which  are  now  revealed  to  him. 
Eternal  rest  with  the  Father,  O,  what  a  thought !  No  more 
sorrow,  nor  suffering,  nor  temptation,  nor  sin,  but  all  joy  and 
peace,  and  happiness  and  purity ;  no  more  cries  of  pain  and 
groanings  of  anguish,  but  shouts  of  praise,  and  songs  of 
gratitude  to  the  King  of  Glory.  No  more  darkness  and 
no  more  night,  but  one  eternal  day  with  thfe  glory  of  God  for 
a  never  setting-sun.  Christian  Pilgrim  through  this  barren 
waste — be  patient  under  all  your  sufferings  and  trials,  for 
there  remaineth  a  rest  for  the  people  of  God  eternal  in  the 
heavens.  Wandering  sinner,  behold  the  path  of  life,  and 
enter  it,  ere  it  is  too  late.  The  longer  you  delay  entering 
upon  a  religious  course,  the  more  difficulties  will  accumulate, 
and  the  less  will  be  the  probability  that  you  will  enter  upon 
t  at  all. 


214  THE    INFIDEL. 

Original. 

AN  INFIDEL  TAKEN  AT   HIS  WORD. 

The  Hon.  S.  H.  L.  was  an  eminent  Lawyer  of  a  new  and 
flourishing  county  of  a  Western  State.  Reared  and  educa- 
ted by  Christian  parents,  blessed  with  a  New-England 
ancestry,  and  early  Christian  instruction,  he  broke  from  the 
endearments  and  wholesome  restraints  of  home  at  an  early 
age,  and  was  borne  by  the  strong  impulses  of  ambition  and 
enterprise,  to  one  of  the  remotest  and  newest  settlements  of 
the  Far  West.  An  unconquerable  purpose  to  be  first  in  his 
profession,  and  attain  to  the  highest  political  distinction, 
fired  his  bosom  with  undying  enthusiasm,  and  impelled  him 
to  untiring  industry.  And  when  victory  placed  her  laurel 
wreath  upon  his  brow,  and  he  saw  his  competitors  vanquish- 
ed upon  the  arena  of  political  contest,  proud  satisfaction 
thrilled  his  bosom.  A  mother's  tender  solicitude — a  father's 
solemn  counsels — the  voice  of  God,  in  his  holy  word,  and 
all  the  restraining  force  of  early  moral  impressions,  wgre 
now  gradually  losing  their  sway  over  his  mind,  and  I  marked 
his  rapid  strides  in  insensibility,  wickedness,  and  final 
infidelity.  At  one  time,  his  sabbaths  are  spent  in  political 
electioneering,  at  another,  in  the  ordinary  labors  of  his 
office.  Seldom  or  never  did  he  lend  the  weight  of  his  ex- 
ample to  sustain  the  worship  of  the  sanctuary,  or  foster  the 
institutions  of  Christianity,  though  policy  would  sometimes 
dictate  a  show  of  sympathy  for  the  weak  and  struggling 
band  of  Christians.  Yet  uninterrupted  prosperity  smiles 
upon  him — the  sufl^rages  of  his  fellow-citizens  place  him 
among  the  Senators  of  the  State.  Competency — a  cheerful 
home — an  amiable  companion,  blooming  children,  and  what- 
ever goes  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  felicity,  implied  in  the 
phrase  domestic  comfort,  all  are  his. 

But  this  bright  picture — this  successful  career  of  ambition 
hath  a  counterpart  shaded  with  tender  melancholy  tints  of 


THE    INFIDEL.  215 

sorrow.  And  as  we  look  at  the  sequel,  let  us  fear  to  drown 
the  voice  of  God  in  an  enlightened  conscience,  and  bid  defi- 
ance to  the  pious  counsels  and  restraints  of  early  years.  As 
this  implies  a  high  degree  of  guilt,  so  it  is  often  visited  with 
signal  punishment.  To  such  lengths  in  moral  insensibility 
had  Mr.  L.  now  proceeded,  that  a  few  weeks  previous  to  his 
death,  in  utter  disregard  of  the  incipient  and  feeble  efforts 
o-f  the  friends  of  Temperance,  he  invested  capital  in  sustain- 
mg  a  gi'ocery  of  the  very  worst  grade,  and  calmly  contem- 
plated its  deadly  ravages  upon  the  community. 

But  mark  the  result.  There  is  a  limit,  beyond  which  even 
a  Saviour's  deep  compassion  seem  to  cease — injured,  abused 
mercy  pleads  no  longer,  and  stern  justice  unsheaths  her 
glittering  sword  for  retribution.  And  when  the  hardened 
offender  is  thus  overtaken  with  signal  punishment,  who  shall 
impeach  the  character  of  Him,  with  whom  judgment  is  his 
strange  work ! 

A  few  days  previous  to  his  awful  end,  Mr.  L,  in  the 
presence  of  by-standers,  as  he  was  descanting  recklessly 
and  abusively  against  Christianity,  and  its  friends,  was  heard 
to  utter  this  language.  "  When  I  die,  I  wish  to  have  a  fair 
day  for  it,  and  go  quick." 

Little  did  the  unhappy  Father  and  Husband  think  that  his 
prayer  would  be  so  speedily  and  so  literally  accomplished. 

The  vernal  sim  was  shedding  its  mellowest  beams  over 
the  Earth.  Not  a  cloud  obscured  its  effulgence.  Balmy 
breezes  wafted  the  fragrance  of  myriads  of  wild  flowers,  as 
they  appeared  in  vast  variety,  spread  over  the  surface  of 
the  boundless  prairie. 

A  ride  of  pleasure  is  proposed,  and  how  tempting  the 
delight  under  such  circumstances !  With  his  two  little  chil- 
dren, he  seats  himself  in  his  carriage,  and  is  soon  lost  to 
view  in  the  rapidity  of  his  motion.  Little  did  his  wife  think 
that  she  had  now  heard  the  shrill  cheerful  accents  of  his 
voice  for  the  last  time.  Little  did  he  think  that  God  was 
now  about  to  answer  the  prayer  that  he  so  impiously  and 
thoughtlessly  uttered  a  few  days  before.     His  horse,  a  young 


216  THE    INFIDEL. 

and  fractious  animal,  taking  fright,  fully  gained  his  liberty, 
'nd  Mr.  L.  in  attempting  to  save  his  children  by  leaping 

)m  the  carriage,  with  one  in  each  hand,  struck  his  head 
tipon  the  ground,  and  from  that  instant  never  spoke  a  word, 
nor  had  a  lucid  moment  of  sensation  and  reason  till  his 
death.  After  lingering  three  or  four  days,  he  expired  in  the 
most  awful  agonies. 

Gentle  Reader !  this  is  no  fiction ;  and  before  you  divert 
your  eye  from  this  brief  chapter  of  events  in  real  life,  let  me 
ask  you  to  pause  and  imprint  upon  the  tablet  of  your  heart 
the  lesson  it  teaches.  Never  trample  beneath  your  feet,  the 
precious  pearls  of  parental  love,  instruction  and  counsel,  nor 
use  efforts  to  blunt  and  destroy  your  purest  sensibilities  and 
your  reason,  by  doing  violence  to  early  moral  and  religious 
impressions,  by  shutting  the  portals  of  your  heart  against 
sacred  truth,  and  extinguishing  the  light  of  God's  monitor  in 
the  Soul — a  tender  conscience.  "  Say  ye  to  the  righteous, 
that  it  shall  be  well  with  him,  for  the  reward  of  his  hands 
shall  be  given  him:  but. wo  unto  the  wicked,  it  shall  be  ill 
with  him,  for  he  shall  eat  of  the  fruit  of  his  own  doings." 


PAGAN    MORALITY. 

A  pagan  moralist  hath  represented  the  folly  of  an  attach- 
ment to  this  world,  almost  as  strongly  as  a  Christian  could 
express  it.  "  Thou  art  a  passenger,"  says  he,  "  and  thy  ship 
put  into  harbor  for  a  few  hours.  The  tide  and  the  wind 
serve,  and  the  pilot  calls  thee  to  depart,  and  thou  art  amus- 
ing thyself,  and  gathering  shells  and  pebbles  on  the  shore, 
till  they  set  sail  without  thee."  So  is  every  Christian,  who 
being  upon  his  voyage  tp  a  happy  eternity,  delays,  and  loi- 
ters, and  thinks,  and  acts,  as  if  he  were  to  dwell  here  for 
ever. 


DOOM  OF  THE  LOST  SOUL.  217 


Original 

DOOM  OF  THE   LOST   SOUL. 

BY     REV.     A.     LIPSCOMB. 

We  stand  amid  the  ruins  of  ancient  architecture.  The 
fallen  columns  lie  in  the  dust,  and  the  ivy  covers  them,  as  if 
to  hide  their  mournful  aspects.  A  thoughtful  -man  must  feel 
solemn  in  the  contemplation  of  such  a  scene.  Why  is  it? 
The  mere  recurrence  of  the  past  cannot  produce  it.  The 
world  is  full  of  the  memorials  of  other  days ;  books  and 
places  call  up  their  history ;  but  yet,  no  such  painful  im- 
pression is  produHM.  The  idea  of  ruin  explains  the  philoso- 
phy of  the  sentiment,  as  the  eye  beholds  the  mouldering 
walls,  it  presents  to  the  intellect  images  of  tender  associa- 
tion. The  patient  toil  of  artist  and  workman  is  remembered. 
The  gathering  crowd  within  its  ample  halls  is  seen  ;  their 
voices  are  heard,  their  fulness  of  life  witnessed.  Then  comes 
the  melancholy  contrast.  Desertion  is  succeeded  by  desola- 
tion. 

We  look  upon  a  case  of  insanity.  The  mind  still  shows 
itself,  but  in  what  fearful  forms  !  Imagination  has  no  beauty — 
reason,  no  argument — faith,  no  anchor — hope,  no  promise. 
The  storm  collects,  and  departs  without  the  sign  of  the  rain- 
bow. We  shrink  from  such'  an  object.  A  wrecked  human 
being  excites  the  same  emotions.  If  we  meet  with  one  whom 
vice  has  destroyed,  quivering  over  the  grave  with  the  curse 
on  him,  and  binding  around  himself  the  cords  that  are  to 
fasten  him  on  the  altar  of  vengeance,  we  shudder  at  the 
enormity,  and  weep  at  the  approaching  destiny.  No  one 
can  resist  the  conclusion,  that  these  things  are  not  necessary. 
It  all  might  have  been  otherwise.  A  wise  and  merciful  plan 
has   been  violated,  and  wretchedness  has  ensued.     Sin  has 


218  ^  DOOM    OP    THE    liOST    SOUL. 

been  determined"  to  execute  its  schemes.  It  has  been  per- 
mitted.    The  terrible  result  is  disclosed. 

The  doctrine  of  eterrial  punishment  is  the  most  awful  form 
of  truth  that  the  human  mind  has  been  called  to  consider ; 
but  yet,  it  is  found  in  the  most  benign  system  of  moral 
science  that  the  world  has  ever  known.  Whatever  diffi- 
culty the  mere  philosopher  may  have  to  reconcile  the  threat- 
ened vengeance  with  the  general  import  of  grace,  the 
enlightened  student  of  Revelation  appreciates  their  har- 
mcMiy,  and  admits  their  mutual  influence.  A  destruction  so 
signal,  so  momentous,  so  immeasurable,  gives  the  highest 
significancy  to  the  death  of  Christ,  and  the  struggles  of 
sincere  piety.  Jehovah  has  pledged  his  wisdom  and  power 
to  avert  it,  if  we  acknowledge  his  claims  and  obey  his  laws. 
The  institutions  of  Christianity  stand  in  the  path  of  rebellion, 
and  obstruct  the  progress  of  iniquity.  If  they  are  all 
annulled,  and  the  blood  of  the  covenant  t|«mpled  under  foot, 
the  judgment  cannot  be  averted.  It  is  the  last  resort  of 
injured  right.     It  is  the  final  refuge  of  despised  benevolence. 

Inspiration  does  not  propose  an  adequate  picture  of  this 
horrible  destiny.  A  clear  annunciation  of  its  certainty,  a 
few  most  impressive  figures,  and  repeated  entreaties  to  shun 
it,  constitute  the  sum  of  its  details.  How  afiecting  is  its 
restraint  1  The  tears  of  Jesus,  over  Jerusalem,  express  more 
than  words  can  embody.  The  sacrifices  of  Apostles,  to  save 
men  from  everlasting  sorrow,  convey  their  perceptions  of 
its  infinite  wretchedness.  How  much  our  own  hearts  teach 
us  on  this  subject !  Let  the  process  of  imagining  its  dread- 
fuhiess  be  carried  on,  in  any  well-balanced  intellect — let  the 
affections,  properly-directed,  assist  the  conceptions — let  the 
relations  of  life  aid  it,  and  into  what  magnitude  do  the  ideas 
of  Revelation  swell !  The  limited  exhibitions  of  the  Scrip- 
tures in  respect  of  this  fact,  are  thus  brought  near  to  every 
man,  and  his  own  nature  is  enlisted  in  the  interpretation  of 
its  tremendous  accumulation  of  ten-ors.  Transfer  the 
declarations  of  Jehovah  into  your  own  bosom,  associate  them 
with  conscience  and  feeling — look  upon  home  and  friends — 


DOOM  OF  THE  LOST  SOUL.  21D 

ook  upon  sky  and  earth — look  upon  the  unfolded  glory  of 
Heaven — look  upon  immortality,  and  all  belonging  to  it,  and 
tell  us  if  the  idea  of  Hell  does  not  assume  an  overwhelming 
power  ?  The  scenery  of  the  Universe  may  refuse  its  em- 
blematic representations,  but  from  the  depths  of  the  awak- 
ened and  trembling  heart,  there  arise  images,  on  which  guilt 
cannot  fix  its  eye.  No  docii'ine  is  introduced  so  near  to  our 
tenderest  sympathies,  our  strongest  instincts,  our  firmest 
convictions,  as  this  doctrine  of  future  punishment.  Men 
cannot  fly  from  it.  The  aid  of  eloquence  is  not  needed  to 
impart  pungency  to  it.  Only  let  the  truth  enter  the  mind,  and 
Omnipotence  attends  its  reception.  If  it  were  less  palpably 
disclosed,  if  the  heart  were  less  capable  of  blending  its 
passions  with  it  then,  indeed,  might  a  daily  repetition  of  Sinai 
wonders  be  necessary  ;  but  formed  and  educated  as  we  are, 
we  have  only  to  embrace  the  naked  statement  of  wrath  to 
come,  and  the  foundation  is  laid  for  moral  excellence.  The 
position  of  the  sinner  is  inconceivably  responsible.  Every 
thing  is  suspended  on  his  recognition  of  this  fact  of  eternal 
suffering.  It  will  be  his  portion,  if  grace  fail  to  renew  his 
corrupt  nature.  If  the  contemplation  of  its  wo  be  so  excit- 
ing, what  must  be  the  reality  !  Whatever  dulness  may  now 
be  found  in  his  intellectual  apprehensions  of  Eternity,  and 
whatever  torpor  may  oppress  his  conscience,  it  will  not  be 
so  amid  the  solemn  issues  of  the  bar  of  God.  The  unspeaka- 
ble wretchedness  will  then  become  a  part  of  his  personal 
history.  Banished  from  the  presence  of  Jesus  Christ,  the 
son  of  God  and  the  Saviour  of  men,  and  doomed  to  be 
imprisoned  with  the  outcasts  of  creation,  he  will  enter  into 
the  full  meaning  of  the  worm  that  dieth  not,  a\d  the  firb 

THAT  IS   XGT  aUEXCHED. 

O  Reader,  if  thou  hast  no  treasure  laid  up  in  Heaven,  be 
persuaded  to  ponder  thy  ways  before  the  gate  of  mercy 
shall  be  forever  shut ! 


O20  MAXIMS    OM    HEA1>TH. 


THE  ART  OF  INVIGORATING  LIFE. 

BY    WM.    KITCHINER,    M.    D. 

Without  thy  healing,  active  energy, 
No  rapture  swells  the  breast. 
No  poet  sings. 

1.  The  grand  secret  principle  of  action  for  living  all  the 
days  of  your  life,  consists  in  keeping  the  expense  of  the 
machinery  of  life  within  the  income  of  health,  which  the 
restorative  process  can  comfortably  and  regularly  supply. 

2.  The  animal  spirits  which  nature  intended  for  the  ani- 
mation and  vigor  and  strength  of  a  week,  should  not  be 
consumed  in  a  day. 

3.  Temperance  and  exercise,  and  tranquility  of  mind 
are  interesting  principles  of  action,  and  are  maxims  of  in- 
valuable interest  and  importance  to  all  persons  who  w-ould 
invigorate  their  health,  and  improve  and  increase  the 
strength  of  their  physical  and  mental  constitution,  as  well 
as  to  increase  the  enjoyment,  and  prolong  the  duration  of 
feeble  life. 

4.  Our  health,  vigor  and  activity  must  depend  much  upon 
regimen,  exercise  and  cheerfulness  of  mind. 

5.  Go  to  bed  early,  and  rise  early,  if  you  wish  to  pre- 
serve health  and  invigorate  life  and  strength. 

6.  Take  as  much  exercise  in  the  open  air  as  you  can, 
without  fatigue,  and  consider  your  walk  or  ride  not  only  as 
the  means  of  exercise,  but  as  the  means  of  enjoying  the 
purest  vital  nourishment. 

7.  It  is  not  merely  the  quality  and  quantity  of  nourish 
ment,  but  the  state  and  perfection  of  the  organs  of  diges 
tion,  which  prepare  it,  that  increase  our  vitality. 

8.  The  source  of  physical  and  moral  health,  happiness 
and  longevity, — 

"  Reason's  whole  pleasure,  all  the  joys  of  sense, 
Lie  in  three  words,  lioallh,  jHiaco  and  competence, 
But  health,  consists  in  temperance  alone  ; 
And  peace,  oh  virtue  I  peace  is  all  thv  own." 


i 


TEj"¥I5j1M':I:I^I'  (^r  WiilLilS. 


LONDON— WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


BY     THE     EDITOR 


It  has  been  said  of  the  pious  and  venerable  Jay  of  Lon- 
don, that  he  failed  not  every  Lord's  day  to  offer  up  the 
petition,  "Lord!  Bless  This  great  City!"  Ministering 
in  this  vast  metropohs,  containing  a  population  of  more  than 
Two  Millions  and  a  half,  what  wonder  that  the  pious  heart 
is  filled  with  emotions  of  indescribable  solicitude  ;  and  often 
has  it  occured  to  us,  when  listening  to  the  deafening  roar 
of  its  busy  population,  or  when  all  was  lulled  to  repose, 
what  a  fearful  weight  of  responsibility  rests  upon  London 
Pastors. 

The  more  we  saw  of  London,  the  more  were  we  amazed, 
and  our  amazement  deepened  into  solemnity  and  interest  in 
its  welfare.  London,  city  of  the  mighty  dead,  depository 
of  the  wealth  of  Empire,  whose  population  is  constantly 
overflowing  its  widely  extended  borders,  what  a  history  is 
thine,  in  which  light  has  for  ages  struggled  with  darkness, 
and  the  paralyzing  influence  of  degeneracy  has  grappled 
with  the  might  of  progress  and  the  march  of  improvement. 
What  changes  thou  hast  witnessed  in  the  lapse  of  2000 
years!  What  adversities  thou  hast  seen  by  fire  and  by 
pestilence !  What  prosperity  thou  hast  experienced  in  the 
pursuit  of  wealth  and  fame  !  What  nation  has  not  felt  the 
might  of  thy  power !  How  hast  thou  been  exalted  and 
humbled ! 

It  is  a  current  opinion  among  Americans,  that  the  growth 
of  our  towns  and  cities  surpasses  in  rapidity  and  extent  those 
of  any  other  part  of  the  world.  To  this  remark,  however, 
London  is  an  exception.  In  a  report  to  Parliament,  it  is 
stated  that  in  less  than  twelve  years,  twelve  hundred  new 

VOL.    6.   NO.    7. 


226  LONDON WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 

Streets  have  been  added  to  London,  which  is  at  the  rate  of 
a  hundred  new  streets  a  year.  These  streets  contain  forty 
eight  thousand  inhabitants,  and  houses  built  on  a  large  and 
commodious  scale,  and  in  a  style  of  superior  comfort.  The 
traveller  who  visited  the  metropolis  ten  years  ago  is 
astonished  to  find  the  vast  improvements  made  in  this  short 
period. 

The  revenue  of  the  London  Post  Office  is  $30,000  a 
week,  and  above  $1,500,000  a  year.  There  are  2000 
merchants  and  brokers  within  half  a  mile  of  the  Exchange. 
The  business  of  the  London  bankers  alone  averages 
$333,000,000  a  month.  The  Bank  of  England  is  said  to 
have  eighty  one  millions  of  dollars  in  its  vaults,  and  a 
sound  paper  circulation  of  200,000,000  of  dollars.  These 
statistics  give  some  idea  of  the  business  and  wealth  of  Lon- 
don. But  one  must  visit  this  great  metropolis,  and  see  with 
his  own  eyes  the  vast  scale  on  which  its  affairs  are  conduc- 
ted, to  realise  fully  what  London  is,  and  what  it  is  destined 
to  be,  should  nothing  occur  to  impede  its  growth  or  mar  its 
prosperity. 

The  lovers  of  rural  pleasure  find  every  thing  to  gratify 
their  taste  and  their  love  of  nature  in  the  magnificent  Parks 
of  London.  In  Hyde  Park,  as  well  as  in  others,  the  visitor 
is  presented,  on  an  afternoon,  with  a  stirring  display  of  the 
aristocracy.  About  4  o'clock  the  carriages  of  the  nobility 
and  gentry  may  be  seen  moving  in  all  directions,  and  ladies 
displaying  their  skill  with  the  whip,  and  driving  their  high 
spirited  horses  with  a  rapidity  and  safety  truly  astonishing. 
In  our  various  perambulations,  we  were  struck  with  the 
order  and  quiet  of  London.  During  our  stay,  we  heard  no 
alarm  of  fire,  and  saw  no  disturbances  in  the  streets.  Burg- 
laries and  outbreaks  are  more  frequently  noticed  in  New 
York  than  in  this  metropolis.  One  reason  assigned  for  this 
is,  that  the  convicts  are  transported  and  not  permitted  to 
return  and  re-enact  their  villanies ;  many  of  the  disorderly 
are  shipped  to  America.  But,  more  than  all,  London  is 
indebted  for  the  order  and  peace  which  prevails  throughout 


LONDON WESTMINSTER    ABBEY.  227 

its  whole  extent,  to  the  perfection  and  efficiency  of  its 
PoHce.  Its  organization  is  most  perfect.  Men  are  not 
armed  with  bludgeons  to  quell  disorder,  but  uniformly  appear 
in  the  conciliatory  character  of  peace  makers.  They 
are  never  known  to  drag  people  indiscriminately  to  the 
watch-house,  and  it  is  seldom  that  their  judicious  and  kind 
treatment  fails  of  restoring  order.  London  Policemen  are 
not  taken  from  the  low  and  ignorant  class  which  infest 
large  cities,  and  who  know  no  other  argument  than  brute 
force,  but  they  are  selected  with  a  proper  regard  to  their 
intellectual  and  moral  qualifications.  This  accounts  for 
their  gentlemanly  conduct,  and  the  readiness  with  which  they 
supply  strangers  with  useful  information.  The  time,  we 
trust,  is  not  far  distant,  when  this  department  of  our  city 
governments,  so  sesential  to  the  preservation  of  order  and 
even  life,  shall  no  longer  be  subject  to  the  control  of  party 
influences,  but  when,  by  common  consent,  men  of  known 
intelligence,  sterling  integrity  and  sound  discretion  shall  be 
appointed  to  so  responsible  an  office.  We  want  men  whose 
skill  is  not  principally  confined  to  the  use  of  the  shillelah, 
in  thumping  the  pavement,  or  thumping  the  bodies  of  luck- 
less wights  or  thoughtless  inebriates :  in  a  word,  we  want 

MEN. 

Among  the  number  of  public  buildings  which  we  visited 
while  in  London,  Westminster  Abbey  awakened  the  liveliest 
interest  and  made  the  most  enduring  impression.  It  is  im- 
possible to  give  the  reader  a  just  idea  of  the  emotions 
awakened  while  viewing  this  noble  edifice.  Sebert,  king  of 
the  East  Angles,  who  flourished  in  the  6th  century,  is  re- 
garded as  the  original  founder  of  the  Abbey.  It  was 
restored  by  Edgar  in  969,  and  re-erected  entirely  by  Edward 
the  Confessor  in  1065.  Edward  spared  no  cost  to  make  the 
structure  the  most  magnificent  that  had  ever  been  erected 
in  his  dominions.  He  devoted  to  the  work  a  tenth  part  of 
his  entire  substance,  as  well  in  gold,  silver  and  cattle  and  all 
his  other  possessions.  Henry  the  III  enlarged  the  plan  of 
the  ancient  Abbey,  and  began  to  rebuild  it  in  a  style  of  far 


228  LONDON WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 

greater  magnificence  than  before.  Edward  I,  and  succeed- 
ing monarchs,  continued  the  work,  but  it  proceeded  so  slowly 
that  it  was  still  incomplete  when  Henry  VII  came  to  the 
throne.  Henry  added  the  Chapel  which  is  commonly 
known  by  his  name,  and  which  may  challenge  competition, 
not  certainly  in  magnitude  and  grandeur,  but  in  elegance 
and  richness  of  ornament,  with  any  specimen  of  architecture 
in  the  worl(J.  The  principal  repairs  or  alterations  made 
since  the  time  of  Henry  VII,  were  those  under  the  direction 
of  Sir  Christopher  Wren. 

It  is  impossible  for  us,  in  this  brief  survey,  to  attempt  any 
description  of  the  form  and  architectural  character  of  this 
famous  Abbey,  or  anything  like  an  enumeration  of  the  vari- 
ous curiosities  and  objects  of  interest  which  it  contains. 
Westminster  Abbey  is  executed  in  the  ancient  Gothic  style  ; 
it  stands  directly  opposite  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  Its 
length  from  east  to  west  is  416  feet — length  of  the  transept 
203 — length  of  the  nave  166 — height  102— length  of  the 
choir  150,  breadth  28.  What  is  properly  the  church,  is  in 
the  form  of  a  cross.  The  northern  transept  presents  an  ex- 
ample of  that  diversified  richness  and  elegant  display  which 
belongs  to  the  pointed  style  of  architecture.  It  derives  its 
imposing  effect  from  its  immense  buttresses,  its  elevated  pin- 
nacles, and  its  admirable  Rose  or  St.  Catherine  wheel  win- 
dow. The  eastern  end  of  the  Abbey  is  sorrounded  by 
chapels,  varying  both  in  their  shape  and  dimensions.  Of 
these  there  were  formerly  fourteen — there  are  still  twelve. 

It  is  from  the  west  entrance  that  the  most  striking  and 
effective  view  of  the  interior  is  obtained.  Entering  the 
west  door  between  the  towers,  the  whole  body  of  the  church 
opens  itself  to  the  eye.  The  happy  disposition  of  the  lights, 
the  noble  range  of  pillars,  by  which  the  whole  building  is 
supported,  so  nicely  adjusted  to  the  forms  and  magnitude  of 
the  arches  and  to  the  aerial  loftiness  of  the  vaulting,  can- 
not fail  to  strike  the  beholder  with  sentiments  of  awe  border- 
ing on  adoration.  We  stood  wrapped  in  amazement  at  be- 
holding this  scene  of  unrivalled  splendor  and  beauty. 


I 


LONDON WESTMINSTER    ABBEY.  229 

ut  the  principal  attraction  of  Westminster  Abbey  arises 
from  the  numerous  tombs  which  it  contains,  some  of  which 
are  monumental  erections  of  great  splendor.  Visitors  are 
admitted  into  the  interior  of  the  Abbey  by  an  entrance  from 
the  south-east,  near  which  is  "  the  Poet's  Corner,"  named 
from  the  number  of  monuments  erected  to  the  memory  of 
celebrated  English  Poets.  Here  we  stood  at  the  shrine  of 
genius,  while,  with  mingled  emotions  of  awe  and  veneration, 
we  read  the  names  of  Shakespeare,  Ben  Johnson,  Spencer, 
Chaucer,  Butler,  Milton,  Cowper,  Gray,  Prior,  Granville, 
Sharpe,  Thompson,  Rowe,  Gay,  Goldsmith,  Handel,  Addison, 
Garrick,  Dryden,  Cowley,  and  a  hundred  others.  Here,  all 
around  us  and  under  our  feet,  are  the  remains  of  those  whose 
names  have  adorned  the  brightest  pages  of  English  history, 
illustrious  for  rank,  power,  beauty  or  genius.  Here  the 
voice  of  history  speaks  amid  the  silence  and  gloom  of 
"Death's  Doings," — facts  are  recorded  in  stone,  and  the 
startling  curiosities  of  antiquity,  awe  and  solemnise  the  mind. 
Here  is  the  famous  stone  which  was  brought  from  Scone  in 
Scotland,  by  Edward  I,  in  129G,  upon  which  the  English 
monarchs  have  since  been  crowned. 

In  the  language  of  Addison,  suggested  by  the  contempla- 
tion of  this  immpressive  scene,  as  presenting  somewhat  a 
picture  of  my  own  thoughts  on  this  occasion,  "  When  I  look 
upon  the  tombs  of  the  great,  every  emotion  of  envy  dies 
within  me  ;  when  I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the  beautiful,  every 
inordinate  desire  goes  out ;  when  I  see  kings  lying  by  those 
who  deposed  them,  when  I  consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by 
side,  or  the  holy  men  that  divided  the  world  with  their  con- 
tests and  disputes,  I  reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishment 
on  the  bitter  competitions,  factions  and  debates  of  mankind. 
When  I  read  the  several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some  that 
died  yesterday  and  some  six  hundred  years  ago,  I  consider 
that  great  day  when  we  shall  all  be  cotemporaries  and  make 
our  appearance  together." 

Reader,  wouldst  thou  feel  thy  lofty  aspirings  give  way — 
thine  inordinate  thirst  for  any  thing  save  the  riches,  honors 


230  LONDON WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

and  glories  of  Heaven  ?  Go — stand,  but  one  half  hour,  in  the 
midst  of  that  great  congregation  of  the  illustrious  dead,  in 
Westminster  Abbey — where  kings  and  nobles,  conquerors 
and  prelates,  historians  and  scholars,  poets  and  philosophers 
'have  laid  their  glory  by.'  Select  as  your  post  of  observa- 
tion the  upper  shuine  ;  cast  your  eye  dow^n  upon  this  mighty 
panorama  of  death — this  w^ilderness  of  tombs  !  '  Behold  the 
chambers  and  pillars  and  funeral  trophies'  of  the  immortal 
dead ;  and  you  may  feel  the  crimson  current  of  life  chill 
around  the  heart  and  run  cold  through  all  its  channels,  while 
you  reflect  on  the  end  of  man  ! 

How  full  of  silence  and  gloom — of  shadows  and  fallen 
glory  is  this  place — and  yet  amidst  the  touching  stillness 
that  reigns  around  the  dead,  the  lightest  foot-fall  and  whis- 
per, reverberates  through  all  these  spacious  vaults  and 
chambers  of  the  tomb !  Here  you  see  names  that  once 
were  the  glory  and  admiration,  or  the  terror  and  scourge  of 
Europe.  Here  are  encoffined  the  blade  and  battle-axe  of 
feudal  times.  The  spear  and  sceptre  that  once  caused  the 
civilized  world  to  grow  pale  ;  and  which  made  whole  realms 
a  field  of  slaurrhter.  Go  down  to  the  tombs  of  kings  and 
conquerors,  and  in  spite  of  a  vigilance  that  never  sleeps  and 
lamps  that  never  go  out,  you  will  see  how  dishonored  is  the 
memory  of  the  dead  !  '  The  coffin  of  Edward  the  Confessor 
has  been  broken  open,  and  his  remains  despoiled  of  their 
funeral  ornanlents ;  the  scepti-e  has  been  stolen  from  the 
hand  of  the  imperial  Elizabeth,  and  the  effigy  of  Henry  the 
Fifth  lies  headless.  Not  a  royal  monument  but  bears  some 
proof  how  false  and  fugitive  is  the  homage  of  mankind  ! 
Some  are  plundered ;  some  mutilated ;  some  covered  with 
ribaldry  and  insult.'  And,  in  spite  of  lasting  marble,  guards 
of  brass  and  bars  of  gold  and  all  that  human  skill  can  devise 
to  deck  the  tomb  and  shield  it  from  the  wastes  of  time,  you 
see  every  thing  here  crumbling  to  ashes ;  yes,  and  the  Abbey 
itself,  this  great  Mausoleum  of  the  immortal  dead,  without 
renewed  skill  and  constant  efforts,  will  soon  become  one 
mighty  pile  of  ruins  I 


LINES    TO    A    LADY.  231 

Original. 

LINES 

rO  A  LADY  ON  RECEIVING  A  BOUQUET  OF  FLOWERS. 

BY  ANNA  L.   SNEIXIMG. 

Charming  flowers !  Nature's  treasures — 

Sweetest  tributes  of  the  heart ; 
'Mid  life's  pains,  and  joys  and  pleasures. 

Ye  must  ever  claim  a  part 

Ye  can  deck  the  harp's  wild  numbers. 

Ye  adorn  the  bridal  wreath,  ' 

And  too  oft  ye  bloom  where  slumbers 

Beauty  in  the  sleep  of  death. 

Ye  can  tell  love's  soft  revealings — 

Ye  can  friendship's  thoughts  impart ; 
And  ye  soothe  or  wound  the  feelings 

Cherished  by  the  wayward  heart 

Flora's  pride  is  still  undying — 

Through  the  Winter's  storms  and  snows, 

Like  Hope's  smile  in  grief  relying, 
Blossoms  Winter's  beauteous  Rose.* 

And  could  all  life's  sunny  bowers 

Be  by  friendly  wishes  blest ; 
1  would  wish  your  fleeting  hours 

Ever  by  sweet  garlands  drest. 

Like  the  Rose — thy  bloom  undying — 

Like  the  Sun  Flower — constant  be : 
Like  the  Lily  pure — retiring 

From  the  world's  vain  revelry. 

Like  the  Snow-drop — meekly  bending, 

When  the  storm  of  life  is  o'er — 
May  thy  spirit  be  ascending 

To  a  brighter,  happier  shore. 

Alluding  to  the  Monthly  Rose,  which  blooms  all  the  year  round. 


232  THE    OLD    CHURCH. 

Original. 

THE    OLD    CHURCH. 

ITS   HALLOWED    ASSOCIATIONS. 

The  hymn  of  praise,  the  voice  of  prayer, 
The  gospel  trumpet  sounded  there. 

There  it  stands !  the  old  church  !  a  memento  of  by-gone 
days.  No  more  shall  we  sit  in  those  seats,  and  listen  to  the 
word  of  truth,  as  the  messenger  of  God  dispenses  it  from 
the  sacred  desk  ;  no  longer,  within  those  walls,  shall  we 
hear  the  "  hymn  of  praise"  as  it  is  chanted  to  Him,  to  whom 
angels  around  His  throne  are  continually  paying  their  songs 
of  holy  adoration.  Those  consecrated  walls  no  longer  echo 
the  voice  of  prayer — but  songless,  prayerless,  and  sermonless, 
is  now  The  Old  House  of  God,  Yet,  notwithstanding  we 
now  go  not  up  there  to  worship,  it  is  still  dear  to  our  mem- 
ory, from  the  many  and  hallowed  associations  that  cluster 
around  this  olden  sanctuary.  It  is  there,  that  in  early  child- 
hood, we  were  wont  to  go  up  from  Sabbath  to  Sabbath — it 
is  there,  that  for  the  first  time,  we  listened  to  the  word  of 
Life,  as  it  came  from  the  lips  of  him  who  had  consecrated 
himself  to  the  service  of  the  most  High — there,  the  song  of 
praise  first  enkindled  emotions  of  delight  in  our  youthful 
bosom,  and  made  our  little  heart  beat  quicker  and  quicker, 
as  the  soul-stirring  music  fell  upon  our  ears.  There  were 
we  accustomed  to  meet  with  those,  who  were  near  and  dear 
to  us  by  the  ties  of  friendship ;  some  of  them  now  have  left 
their  New-England  home,  and  the  firesides  of  their  fathers, 
and  are  now  seeking  their  fortunes  in  remote  places ;  but 
alas !  upon  the  friendly  faces  of  others,  we  shall  no  longer 
look  ;  no  more  will  they  appear  in  the  Lord's  earthly  tem- 
ples— the  cold  grave  has  closed  over  their  mortal  bodies, 
and  their  spirits  have  gone  to  the  world  of  spirits,  to  meet 
the  Judge  of  the  Universe. 


I 


I 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  233 

But  especially  endearing  and  sacred  to  our  memory  is  the 
Old  Church,  from  the  recollection  of  the  aged  pastor  ;  here, 
for  years  he  had  preached  the  everlasting  gospel,  and  had 
grown  old  in  the  work  of  his  Divine  Master.  Memory  car- 
ries us  not  back  to  the  vigorous  young  man,  but  when  we 
for  the  first  time  entered  this  old  sanctuary,  his  locks  were 
hoary,  and  his  face  wrinkled  with  age.  Even  how  can  we 
look  back  through  the  lapse  of  years,  and  seemingly  behold 
this  true  servant  of  Christ — can  image  to  ourself  that  tall, 
spare  form — those  locks  of  snowy  whiteness,  which  the  frosts 
of  many  winters  had  sported  with — that  care-worn  brow, 
and  saintly  countenance,  that  beamed  with  love  and  truth — 
and  those  eyes  that  glowed  with  eloquence — that  eloquence 
which  kindled  up  the  latent  fires  in  the  breast  of  every  hearer 
— they  were  indeed  the  true  index  of  the  transcendent  qual- 
ities of  his  mind — of  calmness,  moderation,  and  depth  of 
thought.  Such  qualities  as  these  were  combined  in  the 
character  of  the  sage  D.  D. 

Who  can  now  enter  this  Old  House,  and  look  upon  that 
desk,  without  having  his  mind  revert  to  the  time  when  this 
aged  and  venerated  man  there  stood  and  delivered  the  mes- 
sages of  Christ.  There  is  now  the  same  elevated  pulpit, 
upon  which  he  was  wont  to  lay  his  holy  hands,  as  he  offered 
up  the  fervent  prayer — above  this,  hangs  the  sounding-board, 
which  our  fathers  placed  there — there  are  still  the  large  gal- 
leries, upon  three  sides  of  the  house,  according  to  ancient 
custom  ;  all  these  are  the  same  as  they  were  in  the  days  of 
our  childhood — even  hard-wearing  time  itself  seems  to  have 
had  regard  to  the  sacred  place,  and  to  have  withheld  its 
dilapidating  hand  from  this  Old  House  of  God,  and  it  now 
appears  no  older  than  it  did  years  ago.  But  in  vain  does 
the  eye  now  search  for  those  whom  in  former  years  it  there 
beheld ;  although  this  temple  of  the  Almighty  still  stands  as 
a  memento  of  days  that  have  passed, -and  seems  to  have  un- 
dergone no  change,  yet  it  admonishes  us  that  the  fell-des- 
troyer has  not  been  inactive,  but  that  he  has  seized  with  his 
destructive  grasp  one  and  another  of  that  little  flock  that 


234  THE    OLD    CHURCH. 

formerly  worshipped  within  its  walls — that  he  has  hurled  his 
shafts  unsparingly  into  its  midst,  and  preyed  upon  the  "just 
and  unjust;"  and  as  we  now  turn  our  gazing  eyes  up  to  that 
antique  pulpit,  the  fact  comes  to  our  mind,  that  he,  who  once 
administered  at  that  altar,  has  left  all  earthly  temples,  and 
gone  to  worship  his  heavenly  Father  "  in  temples  not  made 
with  hands-."  Here  those  beautiful  lines  of  Crabbe  apply 
with  all  their  original  force. 

I  see,  no  more,  those  white  locks  thinly  spread 
Round  the  bald  polish  of  that  honor'd  head ; 
No  more  that  meek,  that  suppliant  look  in  prayer. 
Nor  that  pure  faith,  that  gave  it  force, — are  there ; 
But  he  is  blest ;  and  I  lament  no  more. 

These  words  are  doubly  touching  from  their  application ; 
the  last  line  should  express  the  feelings  of  every  one,  as  -he 
meditates  upon  the  life  and  death  of  one  so  holy  as  was  he 
whose  character  we  are  now  considering ;  "but  he  is  blest" 
— those  words  breathe  a  genial  consolation  into  the  wounded 
breast. 

It  was  in  this  Old  Churcli,  that  "  the  last  sad  duties  "  were 
performed  to  him  whose  voice  had  there  so  many  times 
been  heard — but  those  walls  had  reverberated  it  for  the  last 
time ;  hither  his  mortal  remains  had  been  brought,  that  the 
flock,  over  which  he  had  so  tenderly  watched,  might  once 
more  look  upon  the  face  of  their  aged  and  venerated  pastor. 
The  clergyman  who  conducted  the  services  upon  this 
mournful  occasion,  was  a  venerable  father  in  the  church, 
about  the  age  of  his  departed  brother  ;  his  hair  too  was  sil- 
verd  with  age.  He  had  visited  the  worthy  man  a  few  days 
before  his  death,  when  he  requested  him  to  lead  in  the  ser- 
vices, and  pointed  out  the  passage  from  which  he  wished 
him  to  preach.  The  departed  was  one  dearly  beloved  by 
him — he  had  been  his  counsellor  for  many  years — a  friend- 
ship formed  in  youth,  and  strengthened  by  years,  was  now 
severed ;  it  was  under  such  circumstances  that  he  spoke, 
and  how  could  his  words  be  otherwise  than  pathetic  ?  for 


ON   RECREATION.  235 

they  were  but  the  natural  outbreaking  of  a  heart  overflow- 
ing with  sorrow ;  we  can  nbw  almost  catch  the  tone,  though 
years  have  passed  since  that  day.  Such  are  the  recollec- 
tions that  hover  around  the  Old  Church,  and  so  long  as  we 
breathe  the  vital  air.  they  will  never  be  erased  from  our 
memory.  J.  h.  s. 


ON   RECREATION. 

Recreation  should  be  manly,  moderate,  seasonable  and 
lawful.  If  your  life  be  sedentary,  let  it  tend  to  the  exercise 
of  your  body  : — if  active,  to  the  refreshing  of  your  mind. 
Its  use  is  to  strengthen  your  labor  and  sweeten  your  rest. 

Recreation  of  some  sort  is  absolutely  necessary  to  relieve 
our  minds  and  bodies  from  too  constant  attention  and  labor ; 
indeed,  the  use  of  wisdom  is  in  tempering  our  recreations. 
Some  are  so  rigid  that  they  avoid  all  diversions — others  so 
timid  that  they  abandon  all  lawful  delights,  for  fear  of 
offending.  Truth  compels  us  to  say  these  are  hard  tutors, 
if  not  tyrants  to  themselves  ;  whilst  they  pretend  to  a  mor- 
tified strictness,  they  rob  themselves  of  their  liberty,  and 
contemn  the  liberality  of  their  Maker. 

Those  who  deny  themselves  innocent  and  necessary  re- 
creation from  a  superstitious  dread  of  offending  are  to  be 
pitied  ;  whilst  those  who  tax  themselves  with  an  amount  of 
labor  and  care  which  precludes  the  possibility  of  recreation, 
through  the  desire  of  wealth,  are  to  be  blamed. 

God  never  designed  man  to  be  the  world's  slave  and 
drudge ;  to  toil  unceasingly  at  the  oar  of  life,  until  worked 
out  or  broken  down  he  drops  into  his  grave;  but  he  made 
him  to  be  happy  in  the  alternations  of  labor  and  rest,  of  toil 
and  recreation.  The  wise  man  says,  "  there  is  nothing 
better  than  that  a  man  should  rejoice  in  his  works."  But 
what  joy  can  that  man  have  who  has  no  mercy  on  himself; 
who  over-works  himself,  and  puts  it  out  of  his  power  to 
enjoy  the  fruit  of  his  labors. 


286  THE  sinner's  call. 

Original. 

THE    SINNER'S    CALL.* 

BY   REV.    D.    BURCHARD,    N.    Y. 

Awake  !  Sinner,  wake !  'tis  the  dawning  of  mom ; 
The  mist's  on  the  mountain,  the  dew's  on  the  thorn ; 
The  birds  warble  sweetly  in  vjdley  and  grove. 
All  ofiering  their  Maker  a  morn-song  of  love. 

Awake !  Sinner,  wake  !  for  the  noon-tide's  bright  sun, 
Proclaims  by  its  fervor,  the  day  is  half  done  ; 
Up,  up  and  be  doing,  while  yet  it  is  day ; 
Awake !  to  thy  labor  and  work  whilst  thou  may. 

Awake !  Sinner,  wake  !  for  the  sun  sinks  to  rest, 

On  his  pillow  of  clouds  in  the  shades  of  the  west ; 

E'en  the  wild  feathered  songsters  have  warbled  their  prayer, 

In  doubt  and  in  darkness,  why  sleepest  thou  there .' 

Awake !  Sinner,  wake !  for  the  tempter's  abroad ! 
Heaven's  pathway  is  thornless,  and  pleasant  the  road. 
Through  the  wide  open  gate  of  repentance  and  prayer 
The  smile  of  thy  Saviour  awaileth  thee  there. 

*  We  live  in  a  world  of  storms  and  shipwrecks,  of  perils, 
and  of  pROBATiox,  and  the  voice  of  wisdom  and  of  warning 
is  in  our  ears,  and  yet  we  slumber  on — the  spell  is  unbroken 
— we  dream  of  safety  when  sudden  destruction  is  near. 
The  poet's  call  to  the  slumbering  sinner  is  timely  and  appro- 
priate. Life  is  presented  as  a  brief  summer's  day,  and  its 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  call  upon  the  sinner  to  awake  to 
a  sense  of  his  duty,  his  danger,  his  destiny.  And  as  the 
year  rolls  by,  and  we  stand  at  the  portals  of  a  new  year, 
may  we  not  unite  with  the  Apostle  in  saying,  "  It  is  high 
time  to  awake  out  of  sleep  ?" 


I 


HARY    NELSON.  237 


Original. 


MARY    NELSON: 

OR,    THE   POISON   OF   ERROR. 

"  There,  dear,  be  still  and  it  will  soon  be  morning,"  said 
Mary  Nelson  as  she  reached  down  from  her  own  bed  to  the 
cradle,  in  which  she  had  laid  her  first-born. 

Her  own  pillow  had  thus  far  been  a  sleepless  one,  and 
short  and  restless  had  been  the  dreams  of  her  infant,  whom 
she  had  tried  to  soothe  in  her  bosom,  till  wearied  with  the 
effort,  and  anxious  to  get  a  little  sleep  herself  before  the  sun 
should  return,  she  had  committed  the  child  to  its  cradle,  and 
was  rocking  it  to  slumber. 

It  was  a  sad  night  that  to  Mary  Nelson,  and  she  had 
had  many  such  already,  and  a  prospect  of  more  ;  for  in  the 
distance  she  saw  no  relief  for  the  sorrow  that  was  growing 
deeper  and  heavier  as  each  month  wore  away  with  its  load 
of  grief. 

Mary  and  I  were  playmates  in  childhood.  Her  father 
and  mine  were  neighbors  in  the  country,  and  that  means 
something.  They  were  friends,  and  their  children  were 
friends,  going  to  the  same  school  and  church,  fond  of  the 
same  amusements,  and  Ipoking  forward  to  the  same  life — the 
life  of  happy  farmers  in  a  land  of  plenty.  Mary  and  I  grew 
up  together,  and  were  in  the  flush  of  youth  before  we  had 
either  of  us  thought  of  ever  being  anything  but  children. 
She  was  handsome  ;  and  what  was  strange,  she  did  not 
know  it,  or  at  least  no  one  could  think  she  did,  so  simple,  so 
artless,  so  humble  was  Mary.  Beauty  makes  girls  vain 
often,  and  it  seems  a  pity  that  they  should  spoil  their  looks 
by  airs  that  win  the  love  of  no  one,  and  make  them  only  dis- 
agreeable. But  Mary  never  looked  so  pretty  as  when  we 
had  been  off  in  the  fields  gathering  flowers  in  June,  and 


238  MARY    NELSON. 

coming  home  she  would  fling  herself  down  on  the  turf  by 
the  well,  under  the  great  elm  in  the  rear  of  her  father's 
house,  and  as  she  arranged  her  flowers  in  the  pitchers  to 
stand  on  the  mantelpiece  in  the  front  room,  would  once 
in  a  while  fasten  one  and  another  carelessly  in  her  hair,  till 
she  looked  like  a  fairy,  but  not  a  fairy  from  the  spii-it  land  ; 
for  Mary's  cheek  had  too  much  of  the  rose  of  health,  and  her 
eye,  dark  and  piercing,  was  too  bright  for  fancy  work.  Mary 
was  a  veritable  beauty,  and  by  the  time  she  was  seventeen 
years  old  the  whole  country-side  knew  it.  There  was  not 
a  young  man  of  character  and  prospects,  within  six  miles, 
but  had  seen  Mary  Nelson,  and  many  of  them  went  to  the 
church  where  Mary's  father  attended,  just  to  see  her  as  she 
stepped  out  of  the  long  farmer  wagon  of  a  Sunday  morning, 
and  walked,  in  her  blushing  beauty,  to  her  seat  in  the  church. 
Mary  was  too  young  to  think  of  being  married,  but  ere 
she  was  eighteen  she  had  lost  her  heart  and  got  another  in 
exchange.  And  what  was  worse  than  that,  she  had,  girl-like, 
taken  her  own  way  about  it,  and  made  a  barter  of  hearts 
with  a  boy  whom  her  wiser  parents  would  not  have  chosen 
to  be  the  companion  of  their  child  for  hfe.  Charles  Nelson 
was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  citizen  of  the  great  metropolis,  and 
had  been  sent  into  the  country  in  the  hope  that  he  would 
unlearn  and  forget  some  wild  habits  that  he  had  formed  in 
the  midst  of  the  attractions  of  the  city.  It  was  even  said 
that  he  had  been  to  college,  and  had  been  rusticated  for  a 
season,  that  his  manners  might  be  mended  by  a  few  months' 
residence  among  his  country  cousins.  But  he  was  just  the 
youth  to  be  happy  any  where,  and  when  the  pleasures  of 
the  city  were  no  longer  his  own,  he  entered  with  as  much 
apparent  delight  upon  the  new  world  which  the  country 
oflfered.  In  all  the  sports  of  the  farm  and  the  country  he 
was  as  much  at  home  as  if  he  had  never  been  in  a  wilder- 
ness of  brick.  He  was  the  first  in  a  frolic  to  stir  hay,  to 
pick  blackberries,  to  go  fishing  or  riding,  and  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  the  girl  counted  herself  happy  who  had  Charles 
Nelson  for  her  beau,  when  these  free  and  lively  parties  drew 


^^^To^h 


MARY    NELSON.  239 


ogefher  the  young  folks,  as  they  often  did,  after  the  coming 
of  our  friend  Charles  Nelson  from  the  city. 

We  had  gone  up  to  a  beautiful  lake  in  the*  woods,  on  a 
party  for  sailing  and  fishing,  the  young  folks  of  both  sexes 
finding  equal  pleasure  in  it,  and  neither  caring  anything  for 
the  sport  witKout  the  other ;  I  had  observed  that  Charles  and 
Mary  were  more  than  usually  still,  but  there  was  nothing  in 
the  manner  of  either  that  made  it  worth  while  to  rally  them, 
and  Charles  had  been  so  general  an  admirer,  and  being  him- 
self admired  of  all,  we  had  never  cared  to  appropriate  him 
to  any  one  in  particular.  But  as  we  went  ashore  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  for  the  pic  nic,  Mary  dropped  carelessly 
upon  Charles'  offered  arm,  and  instead  of  entering  upon  the 
gay  scene  of  getting  dinner  in  the  woods,  an  operation  in 
which  they  were  expected  to  take  the  lead,  they  strolled 
away  as  if  they  would  be  alone.  They  were  gone  half  an 
hour,  and  when  they  came  back,  it  was  plain  that  Mary's 
dark  eyes  had  been  weeping.  Her  cheek  was  flushed,  and 
her  voice  trembled  as  she  took  her  seat  among  us,  and  tried 
to  be  cheerful.  Charles  was  pale  and  thoughtful,  and  had 
he  not  been  almost  a  stranger  to  the  young  men,  they  would 
have  teased  him  for  running  away  with  Mary  when  she  was 
wanted  at  the  dinner-table.  But  after  asking  him  if  he  had 
a  pleasant  walk,  and  chiding  him  for  being  late  to  dinner, 
they  said  nothing  more  to  him,  though  there  were  some  of 
us  who  had  our  suspicion  that  Charles  and  Mary  had  been 
talking  love,  and  had  been  caught  by  each  other  in  a  confes- 
sion which  both  were  very  ready  to  make.  And  so  it 
proved.  But  Mary  could  only  say  that  she  must  consult 
her  parents  before  she  would  make  any  promises  to  leave 
them. 

"  And  what  if  they  say  I  am  wild,  and  will  never  do  for 
one  so  gentle,  and  so  sweet  as  you  are,  Mary,  what  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  but  they  will  not ;  I  know  they  will  not ;  they  know 
that  you  are  not  wild  now  ;  that  you  will  never  go  away 
from  this  quiet  spot,  but  will  just  stay  right  here  like  my 
BROTHEE,  and  always  love  us ;  will  you  not  ?" 


240  MARY    NELSON. 

"  Any  where  with  you  Mary.  I  know  I  have  been  wild, 
but  that  was  before  I  knew  you,  or  dreamed  there  was  one 
on  Earth  like  you.  It  always  seemed  to  me  that  it  must  be 
insufferably  dull  up  here,  and  that  nobody  could  live  away 
from  the  city ;  but  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  happy 
till  I  came  here,  and  now  I  feel  that  I  can  neVer  be  happy 
elsewhere.  I  would  love  to  spend  my  life  in  this  country- 
place,  and  leave  the  city  for  those  that  like  it.  I  have  had 
enough  of  it,  and  would  like  to  quit  it  forever." 

How  little  did  he  know  his  own  heart,  or  the  power  of 
early  habit.  But  he  was  honest  in  these  thoughts,  and  in 
the  fulness  of  his  heart  he  was  ready  to  promise  never  to 
take  Mary  away  from  her  own  door,  if  she  would  be  his. 

The  next  summer  Charles  returned  from  the  city,  and 
having  made  arrangements  for  going  into  business  with  his 
father,  he  made  serious  proposals  for  Mary's  hand,  and  after 
no  little  struggle  on  the  part  of  her  parents,  the  consent  was 
given,  and  the  young  lovers  were  married.  Charles'  passion 
for  Mary  had  made  him  apparently  an  altered  man.  In  the 
earlier  years  of  his  career  in  the  city,  he  had  been  getting 
into  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  before  this  time  would  have 
been  out  of  the  reach  of  hope,  had  he  not  wandered  into  the 
country  and  fallen  into  the  silken  snares  of  his  pretty  cousin. 
Now  he  brings  her  to  this  great  city,  and  she  is  happy  with 
him  anywhere.  The  fields  and  flowers  of  that  rural  home, 
seemed  part  of  life  to  her  while  she  was  there,  but  her  heart 
was  nov/  another's,  and  she  was  willing  to  quit  the  sweet 
home  of  her  youth,  and  be  buried  in  the  wilderness  of  a  city, 
for  the  sake  of  him  whom  she  loved  to  call  her  own. 

"  Now  you  will  not  go  to  that  lecture  to-night,  will  you, 
Charles,"  said  Mary  as  her  husband  was  preparing  to  leave 
the  house. 

"  Why  not,  what's  the  harm,  dear  ?" 

"  Much,  very  much  I  fear.  You  are  not  as  happy  now 
as  you  were  before  you  fell  in  with  those  men.  You  do  not 
love  home  as  well,  and  I  wish  you  would  stay  and  read  to 
me." 


AQUILEGIA  CANADENSIS. 


MARY    NELSON",  241 

•  "  But  I  love  you  more,  Mary,  than  ever.  You  know  I  do. 
I  only  go  to  hear  these  men  talk.  I  don't  believe  halt'  they 
say,  and  I  will  be  home  early." 

And  off  he  went  to  hear  a  lecture  from  the  Socialists, 
whose  schemes  of  improvements  had  recently  caught  his 
fancy,  and  he  was  determined  to  hear  for  himself.  Here  he 
learned  to  feel  that  home  was  a  prison,  and  a  husband  a 
slave ;  that  happiness  is  to  be  foitnd  only  in  liberty,  and  that 
no  liBerty  can  be  enjoyed  where  a  man  must  be  tied  up  by 
the  laws  of  domestic  life.  This  was  a  new  doctrine  to 
Charles  Nelson.  He  had  always  felt  free  and  happy,  and 
what  more  could  he  ask  in  the  way  of  liberty  and  love,  than 
he  had  found  in  his  own  home.  But  the  poison  of  a  false 
philosophy,  that  puts  bitter  for  sweet,  and  sweet  for  bitter, 
had  found  its  way  to  his  heart,  and  now  he  began  to  feel 
that  a  man  of  independence  ought  not  to  be  tied  to  the 
drudgery  of  domestic  life,  and  a  man  of  philanthropic  feel- 
ings should  love  all  the  world  alike  !  In  the  stronghold  of 
the  affections,  this  mischief  began  to  work,  and  bitter  were 
its  fruits.  Home  was  no  longer  his  paradise.  Other  haimts 
became  familiar;  late  hours  abroad  were  followed  by  rest- 
less nights,  and  irksome  days  at  home.  Mary's  smile  w'as 
less  warm,  and  her  cheek  grew  pale  as  his  coldness  chilled 
her  heart,  and  the  work  of  misery  once  begun  made  rapid 
and  fearful  progress. 

The  restraints  of  faithfulness  to  one  whom  he  had  pledged 
his  soul  were  gradually  relaxed  ;  dissipation  followed,  and 
then  the  train  of  bankruptcy  and  poverty  and  woe,  rushed  on 
him  in  a  storm. 

Yet  young  and  lovely,  the  wife  and  mother  yielded  to  her 
fate,  but  not  without  a  struggle.  Between  the  ruin  that 
threatened  him,  and  the  present  which  seemed  but  a  step 
from  ruin,  she  sought  to  interpose  her  own  hopes  and  h.ippi- 
ness,  the  memory  of  early  days,  the  promises  of  youtb.  thr 
BABE  SHE  HAD  BORNE  HIM,  and  the  prospcct  of  bliss  oil  Ivirth 
and  on  high,  all  now  to  be  blasted  by  the  wretched  ciireer 
on  which  he  had  entered. 


242  POINT    OF    A    DIAMOND. 

It  was  all  in  vain ;  Mary,  the  wreck  of  loveliness,  has , 
gone  back  to  her  father's  house,  and  there  has  found  a  home 
and  hearts  that  love  to  shelter  her ;  her  husband,  or  he  who 
once  loved  to  call  himself  her  husband,  has  linked  himself  to 
the  new  community  men  and  women,  whose  philosophy  has 
seduced  him  to  his  ruin. 

Alas,  for  the  peace  and  purity  that  once  shed  their  hallowed 
radiance  on  the  home  of  my  early  friend.  Its  joys  withered 
before  the  blighting  power  of  false  teachers,  whose  counsels 
never  lightened  one  load  of  sorrow  on  a  human  heart,  but 
has  burdened  and  crushed  many  that  otherwise  would  have 
known  of  wretchedness  only  by  name. 


THE    POINT    OF   A    DIAMOND. 
BOLD  STROKES  OF   TRUTH. 

"  When  Bishop  Latimer  was  on  trial,  he  at  first  answered 
carelessly.  But  presently  he  heard  the  pen  going  behind 
the  tapestry,  which  was  taking  down  his  words.  Then  he 
was  careful  what  he  said.  There  is  an  All-recording  pen 
behind  the  curiain  of  the  skies,  taking  down  our  words  and 
acts  for  judgment. 

It  is  a  pen  of  iron.  *  The  sin  of  Judah  is  written  with  a 
pen  of  iron,  and  the  point  of  a  diamond.'  It  graves  deep  its 
records  on  the  imperishable  tablets  of  eternity — a  record  of 
every  thought,  word  and  act.  How  ought  we  to  live,  since 
we  can  almost  hear  the  all-recording  pen  going  every  hour, 
since  we  know  that  every  day  we  are  filling  a  page  in  the 
books  that  shall  be  opened  at  the  judgment,  and  the  record 
is  imperishable  as  eternity. 

A  rich  landlord  in  England  once  performed  an  act  of 
tyrannical  injustice  to  a  widowed,  tenant.  The  widow's  son, 
who  saw  it,  became  a  painter,  and  years  after  succeeded  in 
placing  a  painting  of  that  scene  where  their  oppressor  saw 
it.     As.  his  eye  fell  on  the  picture,  the  rich  man  turned  pale 


POINT    OF    A    DIAMOND.  243 

and  trembled,  and  offered  any  sum  to  purchase  it,  that  he 
might  put  it  out  of  sight.  If  every  scene  of  wickedness 
through  which  a  man  passes,  should  be  painted,  and  the , 
paintings  hung  up  about  him,  so  that  he  would  always  see 
the  portrait  of  himself  with  the  evil  passions  expressed  on 
his  countenance,  and  himself  in  the  very  act  of  wickedness, 
he  would  be  wretched.  Such  a  picture-gallery  there  is  ; 
and  in  eternity  the  sinner  will  dwell  in  it ;  for  every  feature 
and  lineament  of  the  soul  in  every  feeling  and  act  of  wicked- 
ness, is  portrayed  imperishably,  and  will  be  exhibited  to  the 
gaze  of  the  universe  forever. 

By  the  discoveries  of  modern  science,  the  rays  of  the  sun 
are  made  to  form  the  exact  portrait  of  him  on  whom  they 
shine.  We  are  all  living  in  the  sun-light  of  eternity,  which 
is  transferring  to  plates  more  enduring  than  brass,  the  exact 
portrait  of  the  soul  in  every  successive  act  with  all  its  at- 
tendant circumstances. 

Interesting  to  the  antiquarian,  is  the  moment  when  he 
drags  out  from  the  sands  of  Egypt  some  obelisk  on  which 
the  'pen  of  iron,  and  the  point  of  a  diamond'  have  graven  the 
portraits,  the  attitudes,  the  dresses,  and  the  pursuits  of  men 
who  lived  and  died  3000  years  ago.  But  none  can  utter  the 
interest  of  that  moment,  when,  from  the  silence  of  eternity 
shall  be  brought  out  tablets  thick-set  with  the  sculptured 
history  of  a  sinful  soul,  and  men  and  angels,  with  the  sinner 
himself,  shall  gaze  appalled  on  the  faithful  portraiture  of  a 
life  of  sin.  Remember,  then,  O,  transgressor,  you  must 
meet  the  record  of  your  sin  in  eternity." 

Reader  !  a  stain  on  thy  character,  though  not  of  flagrant 
complexion,  though  it  may  have  been  made  under  many 
palliating  circumstances — a  gtain,  trivial  though  it  may 
appear  in  the  view  of  the  world,  must  stand  on  the  page  of 
thy  history  forever.  A  stain  on  thy  character  will  not  only 
have  a  bearing  on  thy  whole  future  welfare,  but  it  may  help 
to  form  the  grand  result  that  shall  be  made  out  at  the  judg- 
ment. 


244  THE  TERRIBLE  ENEMY  OF  HOME. 


THE  TERRIBLE  ENEMY  OF  HOME. 

I  PLEAD  the  cause  of  temperance  as  a  practical  theme,  says 
Frelinghuysen,  that  addresses  itself  to  the  heart,  conscience, 
and  intellect  of  every  man,  woman  and  child — that  is  deep, 
pervading  and  universal,  in  all  its  influences  and  interests. 
There  has  never  been  such  a  scourge  permitted  to  visit  our 
race,  as  that  of  intoxicating  liquors.  There  has  never  been 
such  an  absurdity  as  that  we  should  consent,  as  a  Christian 
people,  and  that  the  whole  civilized  world  should  consent  to 
bow  their  necks  under  this  bloody  Moloch — and  that,  after 
all  the  advantages  with  which  a  merciful  Providence  has 
favored  us,  still  fathers'  hearts  have  bled,  and  mothers  have 
wept  over  ruined  children  ;  this  blood-stained  monster  has 
continued  his  ravages,  unheeding  alike  the  groans  of  his  vic- 
tims, the  tears  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan,  and  the  rebukes 
of  the  pulpit  and  the  press.  I  said  there  was  never  a  greater 
contradiction  to  human  reason  ;  but  there  is  one  greater — it 
is,  that,  after  a  kind  Providence  has  opened  a  way  of  relief, 
by  means  of  total  abstinence,  we  should  still  have  to  strive 
and  labor  and  debate  the  question,  with  the  Christian  world, 
whether  that  remedy  shall  be  adopted.  All  the  opposition 
that  perverted  intellect  can  raise  up  has  assaulted  us,  and  is 
still  meeting  us  at  every  corner.       ***** 

There  is  a  peculiarity  in  the  nature  of  the  vice  itself  which 
demands  it.  Of  all  the  habits  this  is  the  most  insidious.  It 
gives  no  warning  of  its  enchantments.  It  speaks  peace,  pro- 
motes joy,  and  makes  encroachments  by  little  and  little. 
The  individual  beholds  visions  of  exalted  joy,  while  he  digs 
his  own  grave  and  while  the  tempter  whispers  peace,  he 
secretly  and  surely  destroy^  all  that  is  valuable  in  his 
character.  He  but  professes  to  quench  his  thirst,  yet  only 
excites  it.  The  more  he  seeks  to  gratify  it,  the  louder  is  the 
call.  It  is  one  of  those  stimulating  agents,  which  the  body 
cannot  endure  without  being  brought  into  bondage.  The 
man  who  takes  his  glass  of  wine  to-day  at  a  certain  time, 


^V  w.i 


THE  TERRIBLE  ENEMY  OF  HOME.  245 


will  require  it  in  larger  quantity  to-morrow.  More  than 
sixty  years  ago,  Dr.  Johnson  was  asked,  "  why  don't  you 
take  wine  ?"  He  answered,  "  for  the  most  important  of  all 
reasons,  I  can't  take  a  little."  That  is  the  only  place  of 
safety.  I  put  it  to  every  man  accustomed  to  use  wine,  if  he 
is  satisfied  with  the  same  quantity  now  that  he  was  a  year 
ago.  I  remember  one  of  the  most  efficient  friends  of  temper- 
ance, was  led  to  stop  drinking  from  reading  three  lines  in  a 
temperance  publication,  which  declared  that  a  man  who  was 
accustomed  to  drink  would  fill  his  glass  higher  every  morn- 
ing. He  said  to  me,  "  I  threw  down  the  book  and  thought  it 
extravagant,  but  that  very  day  at  dinner,  when  I ,  went  to 
take  my  brandy  and  water,  I  found  I  had  actually  doubled 
the  quantity."  Talk  about  drinking  temperately,  you  cannot. 
God  never  meant  alcohol  should  be  used  temperately.  I 
trerhble  for  every  temperate  friend  I  have,  whether  he  drinks 
wine  or  brandy. 

But  the  moral  influence  of  intoxicating  liquors,  is  still  more 
dreadful.  We  can  look  at  the  staggering  form  of  the 
drunkard — But,  O  the  soul !  that  immortal  principle  which 
God  has  pjaced  within  us,  created  with  ability  to  trace  the 
long  track  of  day,  to  roll  among  the  planets  and  calculate 
their  distances,  to  swell  with  gratitude  the  universal  song  of 
praise,  degraded  and  brought  down  to  the  very  dregs  of 
pollution.  That  immortal  life,  all  valuable  as  it  is,  this 
prostrates  and  destroys.  Ten  or  fifteen  years  ago,  when  he 
commenced  his  career,  if  you  had  gone  to  him  and  said, 
"  Sir,  you  will  be  a  drunkard,"  like  Hazael,  he  would  have 
said  with  amazement,  "  Am  I  a  dog  that  I  should  do  this  ?" 
But  now  he  will  stagger  along  your  streets  without  shame. 
Now  and  then,  there  may  be  a  momentary  reluctance  as  he 
passes  along  to  the  place  of  intoxication.  He  may  look  up 
and  down  the  street,  and  may  remember  the  home  he  has 
left  desolate.  He  may  almost  give  up  the  intoxicating  cup, 
but  ah  !  it  is  too  late,  his  resolution  is  gone.  He  has  nothing 
to  fall  back  upon,  and  he  rushes  on  and  drinks  the  fatal  gob- 
let, which  he  knows  is  hurrying  him  to  the  grave. 


246  SINGULAR    REPROOF. 

Can  we  propose  a  simple  remedy?  Yes, — ^just  leave  off 
drinking.  And  ought  not  a  redeemed  world  to  bless  God 
for  this  discovery?  And  ought  we  not,  heart  to  heart  and 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  to  press  forward  in  the  application  of 
such  a  remedy  ? 


SINGULAR  REPROOF  FOR  RELIGIOUS 
MELANCHOLY. 

Mrs.  Mary  Honey  wood,  who  died  in  England  1620,  and 
was  remarkable  both  for  her  longevity  and  the  number  of 
her  lawful  descendants,  having  reached  her  93d  year,  and 
had  357  descendants,  is  said  to  have  been  gi'eatly  oppressed 
with  religious  melancholy.  Being  much  afflicted  in  mind, 
Fuller,  on  the  authority  of  Morton,  Bishop  of  Durham,  relates 
that  many  ministers  repaired  to  her,  and  among  the  rest, 
Fox,  the  Martyrologist,  but  that  all  his  counsels  proved 
ineffectual ;  insomuch,  that,  in  the  agony  of  her  soul,  having 
a  Venice  glass  in  her  hand,  she  burst  out  into  this  expression, 
*•  I  am  as  surely  damned  as  this  glass  is  broken  !"  which  she 
threw  with  violence  to  the  ground ;  but  the  glass  rebounded 
again  and  was  taken  up  whole  and  entire.  It  is  said  to  be 
still  preserved  in  the  family. 

Remarks. — It  is  sad,  indeed,  to  see  persons  of  such  advan- 
ced age  in  such  a  state  of  mental  dejection.  The  feeling  of 
utter  hopelesness  belongs  only  to  such  as  are  of  a  reprobate 
mind,  and  wholly  abandoned  of  God,  as  was  Cain  and  Judas. 
Those  whom  he  cannot  inspire  with  presumption  and  a 
feeling  of  false  security,  Satan  tempts  to  despair.  But  since, 
ordinarily,  no  person  can  certainly  know  that  he  is  wholly 
given  up  of  God,  all,  of  every  age,  should  give  heed  to  the 
encouraging  invitations  of  the  Saviour,  and  look  by  faith  to 
him.  "  The  blood  of  Jesus  cleanseth  from  all  sin."  He 
invites  all  without  distinction  to  come  to  him,  and  assures  us 
that  "  whosoever  cometh  unto  him  he  will  in  no  wise  cast 
out."— Ed. 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  247 


CONSTANTINOPLE. 

BYTHEEDITOR. 
With   a   Steel   Engraving. 

Constantinople  is  the  magnificent  capitol  of  the  once 
powerful  but  now  feeble  and  crumbling  Empire  of  Turkey. 
The  reign  of  Constantine  teems  with  great  and  important 
events;  among  which  was  the  building  of  Constantinople  on 
the  site  of  the  ancient  City  of  Byzantium,  and  the  removal 
of  the  seat  of  empire  to  that  new  Capitol.  The  removal  of 
the  imperial  residence  has  been  assigned  as  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal causes  of  the  downfall  of  the  Roman  empire.  While 
Constantine  designed  to  secure  to  himself  a  glory  equal  to 
that  of  Romulus,  his  ambition  probably  gave  a  fatal  blow 
to  the  Empire. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  situation  of  the  new  Capitol 
was,  in  many  respects,  preferable  to  that  of  Rome.  The 
place  he  pitched  upon  to  immortalize  his  name  was,  indeed, 
well  chosen.  The  ancient  city  of  Byzantium  possessed  one 
of  the  finest  ports  in  the  world,  on  the  straits  of  Thracean 
Bosphorus,  which  communicates  with  those  inland  seas, 
whose  shores  are  formed  by  the  most  opulent  and  delightful 
countries  of  Europe  and  Asia. 

If  we  consider  not  only  the  geographical  position,  but  also 
the  topographical  situation  of  Constantinople,  with  the  beauti- 
ful and  picturesque  arrangement  of  land  and  water  with 
which  it  is  environed,  we  aball  at  once  be  convinced  of  the 
eligibility  of  its  situation,  and  of  the  prefei'ence  due  to  it 
when  compared  with  Rome.  Constantinople  is  situated  on 
an  elevated  ground,  consisting  of  gently  swelling  eminences, 
rising  like  terraces  one  above  another,  without  any  of  those 
valleys  formed  by  the  hills  on  which  Rome  stands ;  which, 
with  the  marshes  adjoining  the  Tiber,  render  the  air  un- 
wholesome.    The  oily  was  laid  out  in  a  triangular  form  ; 


248  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

the  harbor,  the  Bosphorus,  the  Propontis  or  Sea  of  Marmora, 
form  the  triangle.  The  harbor  on  the  north  side  of  the  city 
is  secure  an_d  capacious,  being  five  hundred  yards  wide  at 
its  entrance  from  the  Bosphorus,  and  extends  seven  miles 
into  the  land.  From  the  Euxine  Sea  to  the  Seraglio  point, 
the  whole  length  of  the  Bosphorus  extends  about  18  miles, 
and  its  ordinary  breadth  about  a  mile  and  a  half;  in  many 
places  somewhat  broader,  in  some  much  narrower,  with  sev- 
eral beautiful  windings.  . 

The  ground  on  which  Constantinople  stands  is  marked  by 
nature  as  the  site  of  a  great  city.  A  gently  declining  prom- 
ontor5'  secured  by  narrow  seas,  at  the  east  of  Europe, 
stretches  out  to  meet  the  continent  of  Asia,  from  which  it  is 
separated  by  so  narrow  a  strait  that  a  boat  may  cross  from 
continent  to  continent  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  This  strait 
or  channel,  running  between  the  beautiful  shores  of  Europe 
and  Asia,  looks  like  a  stately  river  until  it  sweeps  by  the 
angle  of  Constantinople,  and  enters  the  Sea  of  Marmora.  Ere 
it  loses  itself  in  that  sea,  it  forms  an  elbow  on  the  right, 
flowing  between  the  triangle  of  Constantinople  proper,  and 
its  su})urbs  of  Galatea  and  Pera,  and  forming  the  port  called 
the  Golden  Horn,  the  most  convenient  as  well  as  the  most 
beautiful  harbor  in  the  world. 

The  triangle  which  the  city  now  entirely  occupies,  is 
washed  on  the  northern  side  by  the  deep  waters  of  the  port, 
and  on  the  south  eastern  by  the  Sea  of  Marmora.  The  base 
of  the  triangle,  or  the  ground  beyond  the  wall  which  attaches 
it  to  the  European  continent,  is  an  elevated  plain  with  some 
trifling  inequalities  of  surface.  The  area  of  the  triangle  is 
diversified  by  gentle  bills  rising  gradually  above  each  other, 
declining  towards  Seraglio  point,  and  shelving  ofi'  on  either 
side  toward  the  Sea.  of  Marmora  and  the  port.  On  these 
beautiful  eminences  the  city  stands,  presenting  on  either 
side  the  aspect  of  a  stately  amphitheatre. 

In  sailing  up  the  Propontis  towards  Constantinople,  the 
most  enchanting  prospect  meets  the  eye  of  the  observer; 
from  evfery  part  he  sees  the  highlands  of  Thrace  and  By- 


I 


CONSTANTIItOPLff.  249 

thesica,  and  never  loses  sight  of  Mount  Olympus,  till  the 
city  itself  is  seen  rising-  from  the  strand,  and  presenting  the 
most  magnificent  appearance.  The  ridge  of  the  first  hill, 
departing  from  the  acute  point  of  the  triangle  is  occupied 
by  the  Seraglio,  or  palace  of  the  Sultan ;  behind  which  the 
dome  of  Santa  Sophia  is  seen  towering  alofl.  The  second 
hill  is  crowned  by  the  mosque  of  the  Osmanich,  whose  dome. 
is  strikingly  bold  and  lofty.  The  still  grander  mosque  of 
Solymsm  the  magnificent  towers  on  the  third  hill ;  whilst  an 
ancient  aqueduct,  with  its  bold  arches,  unites  the  summits  of 
the  third  and  fourth  bills.  On  the  very  highest  point  of  .the 
chain  a  lofty  tower  is  erected  to  give  the  alarm  of  fire. 

Although  Constantinople  is  traversed  with  one  principal 
street  from  the  Seraglio  to  the  inland  walls,  the  houses 
are  not  massed  together  in  compact  blocks,  but  are  inter- 
spersed with  open  spaces,  gardens,  trees,  mosques  and  min- 
arets or  towers,  all  kept  purely  white,  and  surmounted  with 
a  gilded  crescent.  The  elevated  situation  of  the  city  not 
only  contributes  to  its  beauty,  but  also  to  its  health  and 
cleanliness.  It  catches  all  the  pleasant  breezes  from  the 
Bosphorus,  the  Marmora,  and  the  hills  of  Thrace ;  while  the 
earth  which  accumulates  is  washed  into  the  harbor  or  open 
sea.  The  city  is  surrounded  by  old  walls  fianked  with 
towers,  which  are  in  some  parts  in  a  ruinous  condition ;  in- 
cluding its  suburbs  it  probably  contains  not  far  from  a  million 
of  inhabitants. 

View  it  from  whatever  point  you  may,  Constantinople 
appears  like  "  the  Queen  of  cities."  Constantine  designed 
to  make  it  the  capitol  of  the  world.  And  why  may 
it  not  be  ?  By  means  of  the  Euxine  Sea,  and  the  Rivers 
Don  and  Dnieper,  it  may  command  the  commerce  of  the 
vast  regions  of  the  North  ;  and  from  its  communication 
with  the  Mediterranean  Sea,  its  position  is  extremely  advan- 
tageous in  respect  of  the  trade  of  India  and  Africa.  If  it 
should  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  autocrat  of  Russia,  as  it 
ultimately  may,  and  he  should  make  it  the  seat  of  his  empire. 


250  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

there  is  no  calculating  to  what  height  of  power  and  grandeur 
it  may  yet  rise. 

To  this  spot  Constantino  caused  the  wealth  of  Rome  to 
be  conveyed,  and  the  ancient  Capitol  soon  dwindled  into  a 
mere  satellite.  The  wound  was  deadly  and  incurable. 
Rome  and  Italy  fell  under  the  government  of  tyrants  who 
rose  and  fell  in  rapid  succession.  The  Northern  hordes 
which  poured  down  upon  Europe,  completed  the  work  of 
destruction.  But  Constantinople  stood  unrifled  and  unim- 
paired through  all  the  storms  and  revolutions  of  the  dark 
ages.  It  presented  an  insurmountable  obstacle  to  the  Per- 
sians under  Chosroes,  and  resisted  all  the  attacks  of  the 
Avans  and  Goths.  During  the  Caliphate,  it  was  the  bul- 
wark of  Europe  against  the  Saracens.  It  was  never  taken 
by  the  barbarians  of  the  North  or  East.  It  was  even  fortu- 
nate enough  to  escape  the  rage  of  civil  war,  and  to  survive 
for  many  ages,  to  triumph  over  the  vices  of  its  degenerate 
inhabitants.  When  the  arts  and  sciences  were  almost  anni- 
hilated, and  literature  almost  extinguished  by  the  Northern 
nations,  the  Byzantine  empire  was  the  only  part  of  the  then 
known  world,  that  could,  with  propriety,  be  called  civilized ; 
and  Constantinople  the  centre  of  all  that  was  great  and  esti- 
mated in  literature  and  the  arts. 

In  the  darkest  periods  of  the  church,  and  while  the  city 
of  Constantine  was  herself  continually  declining,  it  was 
nevertheless  the  point  where  the  learning  and  science  of  the 
world  was  chiefly  concentrated.  At  length  it  was  taken  by 
Mahomet  II,  and  the  crescent  supplanted  the  cross. 

At  the  present  time  there  is  no  spot  on  the  globe  which 
is  awakening  deeper  interest  than  Constantinople ;  and 
though  recently  the  power  of  persecution  has  arrayed  itself 
against  the  progress  of  truth,  we  have  little  doubt  but  that 
this  magnificent  city  will  soon  be  numbered  among  the 
trophies  of  Christ,  and  the  light  which  once  illuminated  her 
temples  will  rise  and  shine  with  tenfold  brightness. 


DIG DIG    DEEP,  251 


DIG— DIG   DEEP, 


BY     THE     EDITOR. 


This  is  the  word,  the  talisman  of  virtue,  the  motto  of  the 
industrious  and  •  praiseworthy  of  every  class.  Dig — keep 
digging.  Dig ;  not  for  the  precious  metals  and  gems  of 
earth,  but  for  something  infinitely  better  and  more  valuable. 
Dig  for  mental  wealth  and  spiritual  treasures.  These  are 
not  obtained  without  effort.  They  are  not  inherited,  nor  do 
they  come  by  chance :  Providence  does  not  shower  them 
upon  us,  but  they  lie  buried  deep,  like  gold  or  jewels  in  the 
mine,  and  we  must  dig  and  labor  hard,  if  we  would  bring 
them  up  and  become  enriched  by  them.  Those  who  prefer 
a  life  of  ease  and  indolence  to  that  of  hardship  and  toil,  will 
never  acquire  those  lasting  possessions  which  will  forever 
drive  away  want  and  sorrow,  and  provide  the  soul  with 
a  perpetual  /east,  a  feast  of  fat  things. 

The  word,  then,  is  dig.  The  young  man  who  naturally 
dreads  labor,  who  is  too  proud  or  too  lazy  to  work,  must 
nevertheless  dig.  And  the  delicate  young  female,  who  feels 
that  she  was  not  made  to  tug  at  the  oar  of  life,  she  too  must 
dig  for  the  hidden  treasure,  or  it  will  never  be  hqrs. 

One  may  accumulate  temporal  goods,  and  others  may 
share  equally  in  them,  without  the  necessity  of  toil.  Not  so 
in  mental  and  spiritual  acquisitions.  Here,  we  cannot  be 
wise  by  proxy.  The  knowledge  another  may  acquire,  ] 
cannot  make  mine,  without  corresponding  effort.  Each  one 
must  accumulate  for  himself,  or  gather  nothing.  There  is 
no  mystery  in  this,  it  is  plain  as  the  Spanish  proverb,  "  He 
that  will  not  work,  shall  not  eat."  Here  lies  the  secret  of 
mental  power ;  it  lies  in  this  one  little  word,  dig — this  has  a 
sort  of  talismanic  charm  ;  it  can  accomplish  wonders.  And 
remember,  the  deeper  you  dig,  the  richer  will  be  the  veins 
of  knowledge  you  will   strike.     The  laborer   in   Mexican 


252  MEITTAL    TRAINING    OF    CHILDREN. 

mines  has  never  yet  been  rewarded  for  his  incessant  and 
painful  toil.  Probably  many  a  one,  with  an  eye  to  the  rich 
mines  of  Mexico,  has  enlisted  in  the  war  we  are  now  waging 
against  that  distracted,  ill-fated  country.  Vain  and  delusive 
are  their  golden  visions !  But  there  are  mines  of  inexhaus- 
tible wealth  in  the  word  of  God,  which  will  amply  reward 
you  for  all  your  toil.  Dig  then — drill  away — blast  the  rocks 
and  remove  the  rubbish,  and  you  will  find  the  pure  virgin 
ore,  which  will  form  a  crown  of  glory,  more  resplendent 
than  that  which  graced  the  brow  of  Victoria  at  her  corona- 
tion. 


MENTAL  TRAINING  OF  CHILDREN. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  forcing  the  intellect  of  children, 
occasions  great  mischief  to  their  health,  although  it  be  done 
in  the  gentlest  manner.  This  remark  has  particular  reference 
to  scrofulous  and  rickety  children,  whose  brains  are  often 
largely  developed  and  much  disposed  to  mental  activity, 
which  latter  enfeebles  the  weak  condition  of  the  other 
organs  of  the  body,  and,  instead  of  being  checked  by  parents, 
is  fostered  in  every  possible  way,  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
those  means  which  have  an  invigorating  influence  upon  the 
frame,  and  thus  creates  a  premature  decay.  Education 
should  not  be  commenced  before  the  fourth  or  fifth  year,  and 
then  only  of  that  nature  sufficient  to  call  forth  the  slightest 
mental  efforts;  they  should  be  pursued  at  home,  under  the 
guidance  of  a  person  possessing  good  plain  sense.  The  child 
would  then  escape  the  impure  atmosphere  of  the  crowded 
class-room  and  the  restraints  generally  imposed  there,  which 
sometimes  occasion  distortions  and  undermine  weakly  con- 
stitutions. 


TREES    AXD    FLOWERS.  253 

Original. 

TREES    AND    FLOWERS. 

REV.    S.    D.    BURCHARD,  N.  Y. 

All  natural  objects  are  beautiful  and  adapted  to  awaken 
corresponding  emotions  of  beauty  and  sublimity.  The 
broad  expanse  of  the  heavens,  studded  with  stars,  is  an  ob- 
ject which  never  tires,  but  we  ga*ze  upon  it  with  ever  in- 
creasing wonder  and  delight.  The  deep,  blue  ocean,  the 
lofty  mountain,  the  thundering  cataract,  the  scenery  of  for- 
est, glade  and  glen,  awaken  sentiments  of  mingled  awe 
and  admiration.  The  treasures  of  nature  are  infinitely  va- 
ried, and  the  life  of  man  may  come  to  its  close  before  he  has 
seen  half  the  products  and  pictures  which  she  is  able  to  dis- 
play. Among  other  objects  of  interest,  trees,  in  all  their 
variations  of  size  and  shape  and  species,  may  justly  call  our 
attention.  We  love  to  see  them,  in  their  native  wildness^ 
the  sole  possessors  of  the  soil,  undisturbed  by  the  axe  of  the 
bold  adventurer,  the  home  of  the  wild  beast  and  bird.  It  is 
in  the  deep  forest,  when  the  winds  moaned  sobbingly  through 
the  trees,  or  the  zephyr  gently  stirred  the  leafy  foliage,  that 
we  have  held  communion  with  nature  and  with  nature's 
God.  And  even  where  the  hand  of  civilization  and  culture 
has  come,  we  love  to  see  these  forest  natives  embosoming 
and  shadowing  the  cottage  or  the  dwelling.  It  is  a  mark  of 
refined  and  cultivated  taste  thus  to  blend  nature  with  art. 
What  is  it  that  gives  such  an  air  of  elegance  and  aristocracy 
to  the  venerable  mansions  of  the  old  world  ?  Is  it  not  the 
shaded  avenues,  the  forest  scenery,  and  playful  fountains 
that  lead  to,  and  surround  them  ?  What  is  it,  that  imparts 
such  freshness  and  beauty  to  the  homes  and  villages  of  our 
own  New  England  ?  Is  it  not  the  venerable  elms  that  have 
stood  for.  many  long  years,  like  proud  sentinels,  in  all  their 
freshness  and  growing  beauty !     A  residence  in  the  country, 


254  TREES    AND    FLOWERS. 

however  classic  or  modern  its  architecture,  lacks  the  essen- 
tial elements  of  taste  and  comfort  which  is  unadorned  with 
shrubbery  and  trees.  Perhaps  nothing  is  better  adapted 
both  for  ornament  and  shade,  than  our  native  forest  tree, 
THE  MAPLE.  The  pendant  birch  sprinkled  with  hoar-frost,  or 
covered  with  snow,  or  clothed  with  its  summer  foliage,  is  al- 
ways an  object  pleasing  to  the  eye.  The  old  oak,  venerable 
for  years,  majestic  in  its  towering  pride,  the  queen  of  the 
forest,  never  fails  to  leave  on  the  mind  of  the  observer  the 
lingering  idea  of  strength  and  beauty.  The  conical  poplar 
— the  flowery  chesnut — the  elegant  mountain  ash — the  aspi- 
ring fir — the  glossy  laurel — the  weeping  willow — these  all 
form  so  various  and  delightful  pictures,  that  could  I  enjoy 
them,  I  would  not  envy  those  who  choose  to  thread  their 
way  through  the  dust  and  smoke  of  a  crowded  city,  or  lounge 
in  the  picture  galleries  of  the  most  magnificent  palaces.  I 
prefer  nature  for  my  painter,  and  the  mountain  and  the  for- 
est as  my  picture  galleries. 

The  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans,  in  their  most  palmy  and 
prosperous  days,  w^ere  fond  of  cultivating  trees  and  flowers. 
They  thought  it  not  enough,  in  beautifying  their  splendid 
dwellings,  to  have  recourse  to  architecture,  statuary  and 
painting,  but  sought  from  the  hand  of  nature  the  chief  orna- 
ment of  their  elegant  and  retired  abodes.  The  plane  tree 
was  a  peculiar  favorite  among  the  ancients.  The  philosophi- 
cal conversations  of  Socrates  are  represented  as  having  been 
held  under  its  lofty  and  diffiisive  shade.  Herodotus  relates 
that  Xerxes,  on  an  expedition,  happened  to  find  one  of  re- 
markable beauty,  with  which  he  was  so  enamored,  that  he 
presented  it  with  a  golden  chain,  to  be  twined  like  a  sash 
around  its  body,  or  like  a  bracelet  round  one  of  its  arms. 
He  lingered  around  ft,  and  reposed  under  its  cooling  shade. 
And  when,  at  last,  stern  necessity  compelled  him  to  leave 
the  object  of  his  passion,  he  caused  its  figure  to  be  stamped 
on  a  golden  medal,  which  he  constantly  wore  in  memory  of 
his  favorite  tree.  This  fondness  for  the  simple  and  sublime 
beauties  of  nature  does  not  detract  from  the  greatness  of 


TREES   AND    FLOWERS.  255 

him  with  whom  are  associated  the  pomp  of  power  and 
armies  mighty  and  victorious.  "The  associations  of  natm*e 
are  always  pure  and  refreshing.  And  shall  we  be  wholly 
deprived  of  such  pleasures  and  associations,  who  are  doomed 
to  the  daily  duties  and  toils  of  a  crowded  metropolis  ?  Let 
it  be  said  to  the  honor  of  the  good  people  of  New- York, 
that  here  we  have  a  Battery  shaded  with  trees,  command- 
ing an  extensive  view  of  the  harbor,  and  presenting  a  varied 
scene  of  magnificence  and  beauty  scarcely  less  captivating 
than  the  landscapes,  picturesque  and  poetic,  which  repose 
beneath  an  Italian  sky.  We  have  parks,  and  fountains 
sporting  with  the  sun-ray,  and  blending  the  music  of  their 
waters  with  the  noise  and  clattering  machinery  of  busy 
life.  And  here,  too,  we  may  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  the  flow- 
er gai'den.  The  Rose,  that  emblem  of  innocence  and  beauty 
— the  Jessamine,  the  MagnoKa,  the  Tulip,  the  Hyacinth,  the 
Honeysuckle,  and,  indeed,  the  whole  sisterhood  of  flowers, 
may  be  our  daily  companions,  and  they  will  utter  a  voice, 
not  in  words,  but  still  a  voice,  which  has  an  echo  in  the 
heart.  I  am  aware  that  the  sordid  and  the  selfish  will  say, 
"  All  this  is  mere  fiction — the  excess  of  enthusiasm."  But 
I  ask,  has  God  given  to  man  a  taste  for  the  beautiful,  and 
supplied  objects  and  means  abundantly  for  its  gratification, 
and  shall  he,  in  sullen  indifference,  turn  away  from  all  that 
can  delight  the  eye  and  ravish  the  heart!  Or  shall  the^ 
votaries  of  pleasure  confine  themselves  to  heated  rooms  and 
card  tables,  when  the  zephyr  invites  them  to  survey  the 
beauties  and  taste  the  delights  oT  nature,  on  hills,  in  vales,  in 
woods  and  groves,  or  in  the  more  quiet  retreat  of  an  humble 
yet  highly  cultivated  garden?  O,  we  pity  the  man  who  can- 
not, like  Xerxes,  leave  for  a  time  the  pomp  of  wealth  and 
the  hurry  of  business  with  its  corroding  cares,  and  feast  his 
senses  and  his  soul  with  the  sight  of  a  tree  or  a  flower ! 


Original, 
"  HOW  CHARMING  IS  .  THE  PLACE."     S.  M.     T.  Hastings. 


""I 1 — ^^1 — I — ' — ^ — ^-" — ^ 


1.  How  charming  is  the  place,Where  my  Redeemer,  God, 


F:iE9iHEPi5'=];:-nF 


m 


"I — 


O 


gSS 


veils  the  beauties    -of     his     face.  And  sheds  his  love      a  -  broad  ! 


^s^^m 


_o. 


::z!:: 


2.  s 

Not  the  fair  palaces  \ 

To  which  the  great  resort,  .  > 

Are  once  to  be  compared  with  thie,  / 
Where  Jesus  holds  his  court.         ( 


Here  on  the  mercy-seat. 
With  radiant  glory  crown'd. 

Our  joytul  eyes  behold  him  sit 
And  smile  on  all  around. 


To  him  their  prayers  and  cries 
All  humbled  souls  present ; 

He  listens  to  the  broken  sighs. 
And  grants  them  all  they  want. 

5. 

To  them  his  sovereign  will 
He  graciously  imparts  ; 

And  in  return  accepts,  with  smiles. 
The  tribute  of  their  hearts. 


Give  me,  O  Lord,  a  place 
Within  thy  blest  abode. 

Among  the  children  of  thy  grace, 
The  servants  of  my  God. 


THE  SHORT— THE  SURE  WAY  TO  HEAVEN. 


BY     THE     EDITOR, 


There  is  no  royal  road  to  glory ;  many  have  thought 
otherwise  and  have  discovered  when  too  late  their  error; 
death  has  rebuked  the  arrogance  of  their  pretensions,  and 
laid  both  their  hope  and  their  pride  in  the  dust.  Many  have 
resorted  to  human  expedients  to  find  bliss  this  side  of  the 
grave ;  but  have  never  found  it  in  all  their  hoards  of 
golden  gain,  glittering  honors,  alluring  friendships  or  luxuri- 
ous pleasures.  It  was  never  found  in  the  pomp  of  royalty, 
in  the  glory  of  conquests,  or  in  the  refined  and  exalted 
pleasures  of  literature  and  science.  It  has  been  sought  in 
vain  oblations,  in  costly  sacrifices,  in  humiliating  tortures,  in 
self-inflicted  and  prolonged  penances  but  sought  in  vain.  All 
these  have  failed  to  dispel  the  apprehensions  of  guilt  and 
speak  peace  to  the  troubled  soul.  These  miserable  opiates, 
so  far  as  they  have  served  to  stupify  and  indurate  the  mind, 
may  have  produced  a  sort  of  negative  happiness,  or  that 
quiet  which  results  from  insensibility — these  have  removed 
none  of  the  potent  causes  oi  misery,  but  left  the  mind  under 
their  fearful  operation. 

All  human  expedients  have  been  tried  and  proved  empty 
and  worthless  ;  all  have  left  the  soul  at  an  infinite  distance 
from  the  exalted  bliss  of  Heaven.  Even  at  the  summit  of 
worldly  prosperity  and  glory,  the  soul  has  not  gained  the 
first  onward  step  towards  the  paradise  of  God,  or  the  least 
fitness  for  the  society  of  Heaven.  While  the  sinner  seeks 
happiness  in  any  thing  tliat  perishes,  he  is  and  must  forever 


1262  THE    SHORT THE    SURE    WAY    TO    HEAVEN. 

remain  "poor  and  wretched  and  blind  and  naked  and  in 
need  of  all  things." 

What  then  is  the  way  to  happiness  ? — the  short,  the  sure, 
the  only  way  to  Heaven  ?  The  answer  is  comprised  'in  a 
few  words.  We  are  rebels  against  God,  having  transgressed 
his  law  and  trampled  on  his  authority.  For  this  we  must 
humble  ourselves  and  become  deeply  penitent ;  as  guilty, 
condemned  and  ruined,  we  must  by  faith  embrace  the  only 
Saviour  of  lost  sinners  ;  we  must  seek  pardon  and  justifica- 
tion alone,  through  his  merits  and  mediation.  As  defiled  and 
undone,  we  must  seek  to  have  our  souls  puiified  " through 
sanctification  of  the  Spirit  and  belief  of  the  Truth."  As  guilty 
and  helpless,  we  must  receive  Jesus  as  the  Lord  our  right- 
eousness and  strength,  as  our  wisdom,  sanctification  and 
redemption.  These  things  we  must  do  or  perish.  Heaven 
will  not  admit  the  unsanctified  to  its  communion ;  an  offend- 
ed God  will  not  pardon  and  save  those  who  reject  the  medi- 
ation of  his  Son. 

To  such  as  doubt  these  simple,  cardinal  truths,  we  can- 
not now  address  those  arguments  which  have  heretofore 
been  employed  with  so  little  effect.  We  have  but  one 
thing  to  urge ;  we  earnestly  entreat  you  to  study  the 
Bible.  If  here  you  find  no  light — if  the  word  of  God  reveals 
no  remedy  for  sin,  no  sure  method  of  Salvation,  no  hope  be- 
yond the  grave,  you  must  continue  to  grope  in  darkness  and 
ultimately  perish  in  the  gloom  of  unbelief  and  despair ;  if 
you  find  not  eternal  life  written  and  promised  in  this  book, 
in  vain  may  you  search  the  Universe  for  a  ray  of  hope. 
But  assuredly  it  will  not  be  in  vain  that  you  search  the 
Scriptures ;  coming  to  the  Divine  Oracles  you  w^ill  receive 
no  doubtful  response.  Here  is  light  and  truth  to  guide  you 
— the  light  shines  with  a  steady  effulgence,  not  with  a  fitful 
beam.  It  is  a  light  from  God's  throne,  and  if  followed,  it 
will  infallibly  lead  you  to  Heaven. 

This  way  of  Salvation,  this  only  way  to  Heaven,  may  not 
long  be  open.  It  is  open  to  all  who  now  seek  it — open  as 
wide  as  the  gates  of  the  morning ;  to-morrow  it  may  be 


MORAL    COURAGE    IN    EVERY-DAY    LIFE. 


m 


closed — and  when  once  it  is  closed  against  any,  it  will  no 
more  be  opened.  As  the  sand  is  continually  dropping  from  the 
hour-glass,  so  are  the  moments  of  life  passing  away.  Death, 
like  a  secret  enemy,  may  be  lying  in  ambush  about  your  path 
— his  arrows  are  flying  thick  around  you.  The  Judge  is  at 
the  door.  Should  some  unseen  hand  be  commissioned  to 
write  thy  doom  upon  the  wall  of  thy  dwelling,  what  would 
it  be  ?  thy  rise  or  ruin  !  and  should  some  one  be  deputed  to 
announce  the  fearfulness  of  thy  state,  would  it  be  in  a 
scarcely  audible  voice,  or  in  notes  of  appalling  thunder  ? 
Sure  am  I,  if  you  are  not  already  in  the  way  to  Heaven;  no 
time  should  be  lost,  for  Behold,  now  is  the  accepted  time — 
now  is  the  day  of  Salvation  ! 


MORAL  COURAGE  IN  EVERY-DAY  LiPE. 

Have  the  courage  to  discharge  a  d^bt  while  you  have  the 
money  in  your  pocket. 

Have  the  courage  to  do  without  that  which  you  do  not 
need,  however  much  your  eyes  may  covet  it. 

Have  the  courage  to  speak  your  mind  when  it  is  necessa- 
ry you  should  do  so,  and  to  hold  your  tongue  when  it  is 
prudent  you  should  do  so. 

Have  the  courage  to  tell  a  man  why  you  will  not  lend 
him  your  money.  • 

Have  the  courage  to  "  cut "  the  most  agreeable  acquaint- 
ance you  have,  when  you  are  convinced  that  he  lacks  prin- 
ciple. "  A  friend  should  bear  a  friend's  infirmities,''  but  not 
with  his  VICES. 

Have  the  courage  to  show  your  respect  for  honesty,  in 
whatever  guise  it  appears  ;  and  your  contempt  for  dishones- 
ty and  duphcity,  by  whomsoever  exhibited. 

Hade  the  courage  to  wear  your  old  clothes  until  you  can 
pay  for  new  ones. 

Have  the  courage  to  obey  your  Maker  at  the  risk  of  being 
ridiculed  by  man. 


.^64  SABBATH    EVEIVINO.      , 

Original. 

SABBATH    EVENING. 

BT   OSCAR   L.    BEACH. 

"  Fading,  still  fading,  the  last  beam  is  shining, 
Father  in  Heaven !  the  day  is  declining." 

'Tis"  Sabbath  evening:  slowly  sinks  the  Sun 

Whose  last  beams  shine  on  man  and  plain  and  hill, 
Man's  song  of  praise  is  hushed ;  the  day  is  done ; 

The  winds  are  calm,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 
Here  will  I  rest  me  at  this  solemn  hour 

Upon  this  bank,  and  let  the  sinking  ray, 
Shine  in  my  spirit  with  its  melting  power, 

And  drive  each  care  and  darker  thought  away. 

Be  still,  my  soul,  and  list  the  spirit-march 

Of  nature's  messengers  of  prayer  arise, 
From  all  that  dwells  'neath  Heaven's  bending  arch. 

To  Him  who  rules  and  reigns,  beyond  the  skiea 
Now  from  each  humble  flower  that  lifts  its  eye 

In  modest  silence,  in  the  twilight  shade. 
To  the  strong  woods  that  kiss  the  azure  sky, 

A  thoughtful  song  of  gratitude  is  made. 

Each  grove  and  prairie  gives  an  altar  birth. 

And  has  a  shrine  to  holy  worship  given  ; 
Each  breeze  that  rises  from  the  teeming  Earth, 

Is  loaded  with  a  song  of  praise  to  Heaven ; 
Each  wave  that  leaps  along  the  sounding  main. 

Sends  solemn  music  on  the  tuneful  air ; 
And  winds  that  sweep  far  o'er  the  desert  plain 

Bear  off  their  voice  of  humble,  grateful  prayer 

Now  daylight  dies,  and  deeper  shadows  fall. 
And  Earth  is  sinking  to  its  silent  rest ; 

Tue  grove  lies  still  beneath  night's  sable  pall, 
Hushing  the  vnni  to  sleep  upon  its  breast 

Still  floats  unheard  far  up  the  jewelled  skies. 
The  night's  sweet  offering  to  (Jod  above, 


ON    HEALTH.  265 

And  far  through  countless  coming  years  shall  rise 
The  same  unchanging  song  of  praise  and  love. 

Father  in  Heaven  !  a  feeble  child  of  Earth 

Would  lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  suppliant  knee, 
And  join  the  sound  that  from  Creation's  birth 

Has  poured  its  hymn  of  love  and  praise  to  thee. 
And  when  death's  shadows  rest  upon  my  brow 

And  life's  last  sunbeams  glimmer  faintly  there, 
Oh  !  may  my  soul  be  filled  with  peace  as  now, 

And  melt  away  with  nature's  breathing  prayer. 


WHO    SLEW    THESE? 

MISS   SEDGWICK   ON   HEALTH. 

Take,  for  example,  a  young  girl  bred  delicately  in  town, 
shut  up  in  a  nursery  in  her  childhood  ;  in  a  boarding  school 
through  her  youth  ;  never  accustomed  to  either  air  or  exer- 
cise, two  things  that  the  law  of  God  makes  essential  to 
health.  She  marries ;  her  strength  is  inadequate  to  the  de- 
mands upon  it.  Her  beauty  fades  early.  She  languishes 
through  the  hard  offices  of  giving  birth  to  children,  suckling, 
and  watching  over  them,  and  dies  early  ;  and  her  acquaint- 
ances lamentingly  exclaim,  "  What  a  strange  Providence, 
that  a  mother  should  be  taken  in  the  midst  of  life,  from  her 
children  !"  Was  it  Providence  ?  No  !  Providence  has 
assigned  her  threescore  years  and  ten ;  a  term  long  enough 
to  rear  her  children,  and  to  see  her  children's  children  ;  but 
she  did  not  obey  the  laws  on  which  life  depends,  and  of: 
course  she  lost  it.  A  father  too,  is  cut  off  in  the  midst  of 
his  days.  He  is  a  useful  and  distinguished  citizen,  and 
prominent  in  his  profession.  A  general  buzz  rises  on  every 
side,  of  "  What  a  striking  Providence  !"  This  man  has 
been  in  the  habit  of  studying  half  the  night,  of  passing  his 
days  in  his  office  and  in  the  courts,  of  eating  luxurious  din- 
ners and  drinking  various  wines.  He  has  every  day  vio- 
lated the  laws  on  which  health  depends.     Did  Providence 


666  0\    HEALTH. 

cut  him  off?  The  evil  rarely  ends  here.  The  disease  of  the 
father  is  often  transmitted ;  and  a  feeble  mother  rarely 
leaves  behind  her,  vigorous  children.  It  has  been  customary 
in  some  of  our  cities,  for  young  ladies  to  walk  in  thin  shoes 
and  delicate  stockings  in  mid-winter.  A  healthy,  blooming 
young  girl,  thus  dressed  in  violation  of  Heaven's  laws,  pays 
the  penalty  ;  a  checked  circulation,  cold,  fever  and  death. 
"  What  a  sad  Providence !"  exclaim  her  friends.  Was  it 
Providence,  or  her  own  folly?  A  beautiful  young  bride 
goes  night  after  night,  to  parties  made  in  honor  of  her  mar- 
riage. She  has  a  slightly  sore  throat,  perhaps,  and  the 
weather  is  inclement;  but  she  must  wear  her  neck  and  arms 
bare ;  for  who  ever  saw  a  bride  in  a  close  evening  dress  ! 
She  is  consequently  seized  with  an  inflammation  of  the  lungs, 
and  the  grave  receives  her  before  her  bridal  days  are  over. 
"  What  a  Providence  !"  exclaims  the  world,  "  cut  off  in  the 
midst  of  happiness  and  hope !"  Alas  !  did  she  not  cut  off 
the  thread  of  life  herself!  A  girl  from  the  country  exposed 
to  our  changeful  climate,  gets  a  new  bonnet,  instead  of  get- 
ting a  flannel  garment.  A  rheumatism  is  the  consequence. 
Should  the  girl  sit  down  tranquilly  with  the  idea,  that  Prov- 
idence has  sent  the  rheumatism  upon  her,  or  should  she 
charge  it  to  her  vanity,  and  avoid  the  folly  in  future  ?  Look, 
my  young  friends,  at  the  mass  of  diseases  that  are  incurred 
by  intemperance  in  eating,  or  in  drinking,  or  in  study,  or  in 
business !  by  neglect  of  exercise,  cleanliness  and  pure  air  ; 
by  indiscreet  dressing,  tight  lacing,  etc.,  and  all  is  quietly 
imputed  to  Providence !  Is  there  not  impiety  as  well  as  ig- 
norance in  this  ?  Were  the  physical  laws  strictly  observed 
from  generation  to  generation,  there  would  be  an  end  to  the 
frightful  diseases  that  cut  short  life,  and  of  the  long  maladies 
that  make  life  a  tormentor  or  a  trial.  It  is  the  opinion  of 
those  who  best  understand  the  physical  system,  that  this 
wonderful  machine,  the  body,  this  '*  goodly  temple,"  would 
gradually  decay,  and  men  would  die,  as  few  now  die,  as  if 
falling  asleep. 


THEODORE    MANLBY.  267 


Original. 


m  thi 


RELIGION    OR    RUIN. 

THEODORE   MANLEY. 

"  You  are  about  to  leave  us,  my  boy,"  said  a  fond  father  to 
his  only  son,  on  the  morning  of  his  departure  from  home  for 
the  city — "  and  I  trust  you  will  never  forget  that  the  honor 
of  your  father's  house  depends  in  an  important  sense  on  your 
future  conduct.  I  have  procured  for  you  a  lucrative  and 
highly  respectable  situation,  and  your  education  and  habits 
have  been  such  as  to  fit  you  to  shine  in  any  society.  Re- 
member your  social  position — your  honorable  ancestry — 
your  father's  hopes  and  your  mother's  tears,  and  never  suffer 
temptation  to  beguile  you  from  the  path  of  duty," 

The  young  and  sanguine  Theodore  readily  promised  all 
that  was  required  of  him,  and  bade  farewell  to  his  doting 
friends  and  pleasant  home,  with  a  heart  alive  only  to  joyous 
hopes  and  bright  anticipations.  It  was  his  first  emancipation 
from  parental  control,  and  though  he  dearly  loved  the  parents 
who  had  hitherto  watched  over  him  with  such  tender  care, 
his  bosom  swelled  with  delight  at  the  thought  that  he  was 
now  to  take  his  place  as  a  man,  among  his  fellow  men,  and 
under  the  most  flattering  auspices,  to  carve  out  his  own 
way  to  fame  and  fortune.  Poor,  thoughtless,  inexperienced 
traveller,  he  saw  not  the  snares  and  pitfalls  in  this  road, 
which  have  proved  fatal  to  hundreds,  who  like  himself,  started 
for  the  goal  with  eager  and  assured  expectations,  only  to 
stumble  and  fall  to  rise  no  more. 

The  parents  of  Theodore  Manley,  had  long  been  residents 
in  the  beautiful  village  of  A.,  on  the  banks  of  the  silver 
Merrimac,  and  were  justly  ranked  among  the  elite  of  the 
society  in  which  they  moved.  They  were  wealthy,  hospita- 
ble -.Hid  generous — the  kindest  of  neighbors  and  the  most 
honorable  and  devoted  of  friends,  "  none  knew  them  but  to 


268  THEODOEE    MANLEY. 

lOve  them,"  '•  or  named  them  but  to  praise,"  and  yet  with  all 
their  excellencies,  they  were  destitute  of  the  one  thing  need- 
ful. A  proud  reliance  on  his  own  honor,  and  an  overweening 
estimate  of  the  dignity  of  human  nature,  rendered  it  impossi- 
ble for  Mr.  Manley  to  bow  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and 
accept  salvation  as  a  perishing  sinner  at  the  hands  of  a 
crucified  Saviour.  The  mysteries  of  redemption  were  to 
him  foolishness,  and  though  courtesy  prevented  him  from 
expressing  his  opinions  freely  in  the  presence  of  those  whom 
he  regarded  as  fanatics,  his  children  were  taught  the  code 
of  honor,  instead  of  the  precepts  of  the  Bible,  and  soon 
learned  to  consider  the  opinion  of  the  world,  as  of  more 
consequence  than  the  commands  of  God.  They  had  hith- 
erto been  guarded  by  the  watchful  eye  of  parental  love ; 
the  evil  effects  of  such  a  system  were  not  therefore  fully 
developed,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Manley  pointed  with  pride  to 
the  fair  and  blooming  daughters  and  the  promising  son,  who 
had  never  been  restrained  by  "superstitious  fears"  from 
following  the  innocent  dictates  of  their  own  pure  hearts. 

A  situation  had  just  been  procured  for  Theodore,  as  a  clerk 
in  a  large  wholesale  establishment,  where  he  was  certain  if 
diligent  and  faithful,  of  promotion  and  ultimate  success. 
Possessing  naturally  great  energy  of  character,  and  buoyant 
with  health  and  hope,  not  one  feeling  of  doubt  or  self  distrust 
had  ever  crossed  his  mind — still  when  he  first  entered  the 
vast  and  busy  apartment  which  was  to  be  the  scene  of  his 
future  labors,  he  shrunk  from  the  noise  and  bustle  which 
pervaded  it  and  almost  wished  himself  in  his  own  quiet  home 
once  more.  His  fellow  clerks  eyed  him  he  thought,  rather 
contemptuously  as  a  "  country  lad,"  and  all  were  too  much 
engrossed  with  their  own  occupations  to  bestow  any  atten- 
tion on  the  new  comer,  who  was  rapidly  sinking  in  his  own 
estimation,  as  he  compared  himself  with  the  stylish  young 
men  by  whom  he  was  surrounded.  It  was  not  long  however, 
before  one  of  them  who  seemed  about  his  own  age,  accosted 
Theodore  in  terms  of  great  kindness,  and  by  his  polite  and 
friendly  manner,  soon  gained  his  confidence  and  succeeded 


THEODORE    MANLDY.  S989 

in  removing  his  embarrassment.  From  that  hour,  WiUiam 
Lamson  and  Theodore  Manley  were  inseparable  companions, 
and  the  influence  acquired  by  the  former,  over  the  ingenuous 
and  susceptible  mind  of  his  friend,  was  unbounded.  Most 
unfortunately  young  Lamson  was  destitute  of  fixed  principles, 
and  though  attentive  to  business  and  faithful  to  the  interests 
of  liis  employer,  his  leisure  hours  were  too  often  spent  in 
scenes  of  profligacy  and  vice.  When  first  invited  by  his 
friend  to  accompany  him  to  the  Theatre,  Theodore  hesitated 
and  finally  refused,  for  his  parents  were  strongly  opposed  to 
theatrical  amusements,  and  had  exacted  from  him  a  promise 
on  leaving  home,  that  he  would  never  attend  them.  But  it 
was  on  the  score  of  gentility  and  refinement,  not  on  that  of 
principle,  that  he  had  heard  them  censure  the  Theatre,  and 
he  was  quite  sure,  that  no  objection  on  that  score  could  be 
f(^t  by  his  father,  in  reference  to  the  scenes  described  in  such 
brilliant  colors  by  his  young  companions.  Alas,  for  the 
morality  that  rests  on  the  sandy  foundation  of  honor  only, 
when  the  storms  of  temptation  assail  it !  But  a  few  months 
had  elapsed  before  Theodore  was  persuaded  to  witness  the 
representation  of  Richard  the  Third,  with  the  assurance  that 
if  he  saw  any  thing  objectionable  in  the  amusement,  he 
should  never  again  be  urged  to  repeat  the  visit.  Well  might 
his  tempters  trust  the  force  of  his  own  inclinations,  when 
once  the  first  step  was  taken  and  the  promise  made  to  his 
absent  parents  violated.  He  was  bewildered,  fascinated, 
maddened.  Night  after  night  his  visits  to  the  Theatre  were 
repeated,  until  the  fatal  passion  became  so  strong  that  he 
was  never  happy  elsewhere.  Mechanically,  he  went  through 
the  ^aily  routine  of  his  duties,  but  his  mind  was  constantly 
in  a  state  of  dreamy  excitement,  which  absorbed  all  his 
faculties.  By  degrees,  he  learned  to  look  upon  gambling, 
profanity,  intemperance  and  profligacy  as  gentlemanly  fail- 
ings, which  did  not  detract  at  all  from  the  character  of  a 
"good  fellow,"  which  he  was  ambitious  to  emulate.  His 
downward  career  was  fearfully  rapid,  checked  indeed  at 
times  by  an  affectionate  letter  from  his  still  beloved  home, 


270  THEODORE    MANLEY. 

or  an  earnest  remonstrance  from  his  more  phlegmatic  friend 
Lamson,  who  was  astonished  at  the  fact  that  the  mercurial 
temperament  of  young  Manley  should  hurry  him  on  to  such 
excesses. 

Once  only,  at  the  close  of  his  first  year  in  New  York, 
he  visited  the  peaceful  village  of  his  nativity,  and  found 
himself  again  in  the  home  of  his  childhood,  and  surrounded 
by  those  who  loved  him  best.  Why  was  it  that  every  thing 
there  seemed  to  have  undergone  so  great  a  change  ?  There 
was  his  noble  dignified  father — there  his  fond  and  tender 
mother — his  lovely  and  intelligent  sisters — all  the  same,  both 
in  their  love  to  him  and  to  each  other,  and  yet  all  so  changed, 
that  he  would  gladly  have  fled  forever  from  the  domestic 
circle,  on  the  very  first  night  of  his  arrival.  Conscious  guilt 
had  robbed  him  of  peace,  and  the  feverish  excitement  of 
unhallowed  pleasures,  rendered  the  enjoyments  of  home 
wearisome  and  insipid.  His  friends  saw  that  all  was  not 
right,  but  with  the  credulity  of  affection,  they  believed  it  was 
only  confinement  and  hard  labor  which  had  robbed  his  eye 
of  its  lustre  and  his  cheek  of  bloom,  and  loved  him  the  more 
for  these  evidences  of  devotion  to  his  chosen  pursuits. 

And  he  the  prodigal,  who  felt  that  he  had  brought  into 
this  scene  of  tranquil  enjoyment,  a  heart  cankered  and  cor- 
rupted with  vice  ;  who  knew  that  the  revelation  of  his  true 
character  would  forever  banish  happiness  from  his  home, 
and  bring  mourning  and  woe  in  its  stead — how  painful  to 
him  were  the  endearments  lavished  upon  him  by  the  uncon- 
scious friends  he  had  injured  so  deeply.  The  four  weeks 
thus  spent  were  the  most  trying  he  had  ever  known,  and  he 
hailed  the  period  of  his  return  to  the  city,  as  one  of  freedom 
from  restraints  which  had  become  quite  intolerable,  for 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  not  one  serious  purpose  of  reforma- 
tion had  in  all  this  time  been  for  a  moment  entertained.  A 
"  short  life  and  a  merry  one,"  had  become  his  favorite  motto, 
and  he  believed  the  only  difference  between  himself  and 
others  to  consist  in  his  freedom  from  hypocrisy  and  cant. 
Poor  misguided  youth — no  lingering  influences  of  a  religious 


THEODORE    MANLEY.  271 

education — no  remembrance  of  a  father's  pious  counsels,  or 
a  mother's  fervent  prayers,  stood  between  him  and  the  des- 
truction to  which  he  was  hastening.  He  had  been  trained 
for  this  world  only,  and  the  parents  who  had  thus  betrayed 
their  sacred  trust,  were  about  to  receive  their  reward. 

On  his  return  to  New- York,  Theodore  Manly  plunged 
more  eagerly  than  before,  into  the  vortex  of  folly  and  sin, 
and  soon  outstripped  all  his  companions,  in  the  reckless 
daring  with  which  he  set  at  defiance  the  laws  of  God  and 
man.  The  liberal  allowance  received  from  his  father,  to- 
gether with  his  salary,  were  soon  found  insufficient  to  meet 
the  demands  upon  his  purse,  and  he  frequently  had  recourse 
to  the  drawer  of  his  employer,  fully  intending  to  replace  the 
small  sums  thus  abstracted,  as  soon  as  possible.  But  a  con- 
venient season  for  this  never  came ;  on  the  contrary,  his  ex- 
penses were  every  day  increasing  as  his  evil  habits  became 
more  fully  confirmed.  At  last — while  whispers  of  his  dis- 
honesty were  rife  among  his  associates,  a  forged  note  was 
presented  for  payment,  under  circumstances  which  fastened 
the  crime  on  the  miserable  Theodore.  Pale  and  trembling, 
he  listened  in  silence  to  the  sentence  of  ignominious  expul- 
sion which  fell  from  the  lips  of  his  employer,  who  would  not 
for  the  sake  of  his  friends  proceed  legally  against  the  self- 
condemned  culprit.  Hastily  and  by  night  he  left  the  city, 
and  on  his  arrival  at  New  Bedford,  embarked  on  board  a 
whale  ship  for  a  three  years'  cruise,  without  one  word  of 
*^  farewell  to  the  friends  from  whom  he  was  separated,  perhaps 

forever. 

But  who  can  paint  the  astonishment  and  anguish  with 
which  the  news  of  the  dishonor  and  flight  of  their  beloved 
son,  was  received  by  the  parents  of  the  wanderer.     Who 
J  can  describe  their  agony,  as  the  conviction  fell  like  an  ice- 

^K  bolt  on  their  hearts,  that  he  in  whom  so  many  fond  hopes 
^H  were  centred,  and  whose  perfect  integrity  they  had  never 
^B  for  a  moment  doubted,  was  indeed  a  degraded  felon,  an  out- 
^B        cast  from  society,  whose  existence  was  henceforth  to  be  a 


I 


272  THEODORE    MANLEY. 

infancy  and  childhood.  For  many  long  months,  during  which 
no  tidings  came  from  the  lost  one,  they  mourned,  refusing 
to  be  comforted,  but  when  time  had  softened  the  first  inten- 
sity of  their  grief,  a  letter  was  received  from  him,  which 
opened  afresh  all  their  wounds.  It  was  dated  at  an  obscure 
town  in  South  America,  and  seemed  dictated  by  a  spirit  of 
reckless  self-abandonment.     The  following  are  extracts. 

*  *  *  *  "I  have  looked  my  last  upon  your  faces,  for  the 
die  is  cast,  and  henceforth  I  must  be  a  fugitive  and  wander- 
er on  the  face  of  the  Earth.  The  brand  of  infamy  is  on  my 
brow,  and  assuredly  I  shall  not  return  to  have  the  slow  un- 
moving  finger  of  scorn  pointed  at  me  as  a  convicted  thief 
and  forger.  No — better  to  live  and  die  in  obscurity  and 
want,  better  the  prison,  the  rack,  the  gibbet  than  this.  I 
was  not  born  for  one  of  those  cold  blooded  villains  who  can 
feed  and  fatten  on  crime  and  wear  all  the  while  an  exterior 
of  faultless  propriety  and  goodness.  I  must  seem  what  I 
am,  and  be  what  I  seem,  and  the  only  place  for  me  is  among 
reprobates  and  outcasts  like  myself.  ****** 

"  You  never  taught  me  what  I  now  know  from  my  own 
consciousness,  that  there  is  a  hell  for  the  wicked.  How  can 
I  doubt  it,  when  I  feel  its  fires  already  in  my  bosom  ?  Cruel 
parents — but  I  will  not  reproach  you,  for  you  have  been  far 
kinder  to  me  than  I  deserve,  but  it  would  have  been  mercy  to 
have  exposed  me  in  helpless  infancy  to  savage  beasts,  rather 
than  to  send  me  out  into  the  world  with  no  shield  but  "a  sense 
of  honor,"  to  cope  with  its  thousand  snares  and  dangers. 
The  game  is  played  out>  and  I  have  risen  from  the  board  a 
ruined  and  desperate  man,  with  no  prospect  but  misery,  and 
no  hope  but  that  of  an  early  and  dishonored  grave." 

In  two  years  from  the  date  of  this  letter,  the  unhappy 
young  man  was  killed  in  .a  street  brawl  in  Havana,  having 
never  again  revisited  his  home  or  country. 

Such  was  the  melancholy  result  of  a  system  of  training  in 
which  God  was  not  acknowledged. 


A  mother's  choice.  273 


O  r i  gi  n  al . 

A   MOTHER'S   CHOICE. 

BY     MRS.      M.     J.     GEORGE.* 

Were  I  to  choose  for  thee,  my  boy, 

Thy  future  path  in  life  to  trace. 
Through  years  of  pain,  though  fraught  with  joy 

I  would  not  one  dark  line  erase. 

To  God  thy  spirit  I'd  commend, 
Through  years  of  helpless  infancy. 

To  be  thy  Guardian  and  thy  Friend, 
In  childhood  too,  to  be  thy  stay. 

Thou  art  to  me  like  Spring's  first  flowers j 
Which  shed  in  air  their  sweet  perfiune, 

And  water'd  too  by  genial  showers. 
Art  like  the  lily  in  its  bloom. 

Should  death  the  blossom  nip  in  bloom. 
And  all  my  brightest  hopes  destroy, 

I  would  go  mourning  to  the  tomb, 
Depriv'd  of  thee,  thy  mother's  joy. 

But  even  then  should  not  repine 

Against  the  will  of  Heaven, 
If  thou  wert  gone  to  a  fairer  clime. 

Although  my  heart  were  riven. 

Would  not  thy  spirit,  dearest  one, 

In  perfect  bliss  thy  God  behold, 
And  bow  before  His  Holy  Throne, 

With  glory  crowned — with  harp  of  gold. 

Should  life  and  health  to  thee  be  given. 
And  thou  be  spared,  thy  mother's  joy, 

My  gratitude  shall  rise  to  Heaven, 
While  I  my  noblest  powers  employ. 

*  We  thank  the  poetess  and  crave  an  interest  in  her  pea 


374  MDTABILITT, 

To  cultivate  your  youthful  mind. 
Though  humble  now  may  be  your  lot ; 

You'll  fill  the  the  place  by  Heaven  designed. 
Whether  in  palace  or  in  cot. 

*  •  I  would  not  ask  for  thee  ray  boy. 

High  honors  or  a  sounding  name , 
I  rather  you'd  your  time  employ. 
In  telling  how  the  Saviour  came. 

May  Henry's  youth  to  God  be  given, 
May  Jesus'  smiles  his  soul  illume. 

Preparing  for  a  holy  Heaven, 
Beyond  the  precints  of  the  tomb. 


MUTABILITY. 

Hie  following  lines  arc  among  the  most  beautiful  that  ever  emiMted  from 
pen  of  Shelley  : — 

We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the  midnight  moon ; 

How  restlessly  they  speed,  and  gleam,  and  quiva. 
Streaking  the  darkness  radiently ! — yet  soon 

Night  closes  around,  and  they  are  lost  forever. 

Or  like  forgotten  lyres,  whose  dissonant  strings 
Give  various  response  to  each  varying  blast. 

To  whose  frail  frame  no  second  motion  bringis 
One  mood  or  modulation  like  the  last. 

We  rest — a  dream  has  power  to  poison  sleep ; 

We  rise — one  wandering  thought  pollutes  the  day; 
We  feel,  conceive,  or  reason,  laugh  or  weep ; 

Jjnbrace  fond  woe,  or  cast  our  cares  away. 

It  is  the  same ! — For  be  it  joy  or  sorrow. 
The  path  of  its  departure  still  is  free — 

Man's  yesterday  may  ne'er  oe  like  his  morrow ; 
Nought  may  endure  his  Mutability 


TEMPERANCE    TALE.  275 

AN    EXTRAORDINARY    SCENE. 

FACTS    NOT    FICTION. 
In  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Alice  arrived  at  S , 


a  great  experience  meeting  was  to  be  held  in  one  of  the 
churches.  Her  friend,  who  had  become  enthusiastic  in  the 
cause,  urged  her  to  go  to  this  meeting,  which  Alice  did, 
although  with  a  feeling  of  reluctance.  The  house  was 
crowded  above  and  below.  The  preliminaries  usually  ap- 
pertaining to  such  meetings  having  been  arranged,  a  brief 
opening  address  was  made  by  one  of  the  ministers :  a  re- 
formed man  then  related  his  experience  with  great  effect. 
After  he  had  finished  there  was  a  pause  of  nearly  a  minute  ; 
at  length  a  man  who  had  been  seated  far  back,  with  his  face 
partly  turned  from  the  audience,  arose  slowly  and  moved  to 
the  front  of  the  stage. 

A  half  suppressed  exclamation  escaped  Alice,  as  her  eyes 
caught  the  well  known  features  of  him  who  had  been  her 
husband  while  a  quick  thrill  ran  through  her.  Then  her 
whole  frame  trembled  jn  accord  with  her  heart.  The  face 
of  Mr.  Delancy  was  greatly  changed  since  she  last  looked 
upon  it.  Its  calm,  dignified  elevation  had  been  restored,  but 
with  what  difference — what  before  was  cheerful  was  sad, 
very  sad. 

*Mr.  President.'  he  began  in  a  subdued  voice,  'although  I 
had  consented  at  your  urgent  solicitation,  to  address  this 
assembly  to-night,  yet  I  have  felt  so  strong  a  reluctance  to 
doing  so,  that  it  has  been  with  the  utmost  difficulty  I  could 
drag  myself  forward.  But  I  had  passed  my  word,  I  could 
not  violate  it.  As  to  relating  my  experience,  that  I  do  not 
think  I  can  venture  upon.  The  past  I  dare  not  recall. 
Would  to  Heaven  that  the  memory  of  just  ten  years  of  my 
life  were  blotted  out,' 


276  TEMPERAffCE    TALE. 

The  speaker  paused  a  moment  already  much  affected 
He,  resuming  in  a  firmer  voice,  said: 

'  Something  must  be  said  of  my  own  case,  or  I  shall  fail  tc 
make  thai  impression  on  your  minds  that  I  wish  to  produce. 
Pictures  of  real  life  touch  the  heart  with  great  power,  while 
abstract  presentations  of  truth  glitter  coldly  in  the  intellectual 
regions  of  the  mind,  and  then  fade  from  the"  perception  like 
dissolving  figures  in  the  diorama. 

'Your  speaker  once  stood  among  the  first  members  of  the 
bar,  in  a  neighboring  State.  Nay,  more  than  that — he  re- 
presented his  county  in  the  assembly  of  the  Commonwealth. 
And  more  than  that  still — occupied  a  seat  in  Congress  foi 
two  Congressional  periods.' 

'  And  yet  more  than  all  that,'  he  continued,  his  voice  sink- 
ing into  a  low  thrilling  tone — *he  once  had  a  tenderly  loved 
wife  and  two  sweet  children.  But  all  these  honors,  all  these 
blessings  have  departed  from  him,'  he  continued,  his  voice 
growing  louder  and  deeper  in  his  effort  to  control  himself. 
'  He  was  unworthy  to  retain  them  !  His  constituents  threw 
him  off  because  he  had  debased  himself,  and  disgraced  them. 
And  worse  than  all — she,  who  had  loved  him  devotedly — she 
who  had  bore  him  two  babes,  was  forced  to  abandon  him, 
and  seek  an  asylum  in  her  father's  house.  And  why? 
Could  I  become  so  changed  in  a  few  short  years  ?  What 
power  was  there  so  to  abase  me  that  my  fellow  beings 
spurned,  and  even  the  wife  of  my  bosom  turned  away,  heart 
stricken  from  me  ?  Alas  !  my  friends — it  was  a  mad  indul- 
gence in  mockery  !  A  very  demon — a  Circe,  changing  the 
human  into  the  beastial.  But  for  this,  and  I  were  an  honora- 
ble and  useful  representative  in  Congress,  pursuing  after  my 
country's  good,  and  blessed  in  the  home  circle  with  wife  and 
children.  But  I  have  not  told  you  all.  After  my  wife 
separated  from  me,  I  sank  rapidly.  A  state  of  sobriety 
brought  too  many  terrible  thoughts.  I  therefore  drank  more 
freely,  and  was  rarely,  if  ever,  from  under  the  bewildering 
effects  of  partial  intoxication.  I  remained  in  the  same 
village  for  some  years,  but  never  once  saw  her  during  that 


Orr/m*  ft      I  riti' 

/  /*  rft  n  tt  flotfif  ftt  t  n  /' 


VJ 


TEMPERANCE    TALE.  277 

time ;  nor  a  glimpse  of  my  children.  At  last  I  became  so 
abandoned  in  life,  that  my  wife,  urged  on  by  her  friends,  no 
doubt,  filed  an  application  for  a  divorce,  and  as  cause  could 
readily  be  shown  why  it  should  be  granted,  a  separation  was 
legally  declared.  To  complete  my  disgrace,  at  the  next 
congressional  canvass,  I  was  left  off  the  ticket,  as  unfit  to 
represent  the  district.  I  then  left  the  country  and  State, 
where  I  had  lived  from  my  boyhood  up. 

*  Three  years  has  passed  since  then.     For  two  years  of 
that  period  I  abandoned  myself  to  the  fearful  impulse  of  the 
appetite  I  had  acquired.     Then  I  heard  of  this  new  move- 
ment;  the  great  temperance  cause.     At  first  I  sneered,  then 
wondered,  listened  at  last,  and  finally  threw  myself  upon  the 
great  wave  that  was  sweeping  onward,  in  hope  of  being  car- 
ried by  it  far  out  of  the  reach  of  danger.     I  did  not  hope 
with  a  vain  hope.     It  did  for  me  all  and  more  than  I  could 
have  desired.     It  set  me  once  more  upon  my  feet ;  once 
more  made  a  man  of  me.     A  year  of  sobriety,  earnest  devo- 
tion to  my  profession,  a  fervent  prayer  to  Him  who  alone 
gives  strength  in  every  good  resolution,  has  restored  to  me 
much  that  I  have  lost ;  but  not  all,  not  the  richest  treasure 
that  I  have  proved  myself  unworthy  to  retain ;  not  my  wife 
and  children.     Ah !  between  myself  and  these  the  law  has 
laid  its  stern  impassible  interdiction.     I  have  no  longer  a 
wife,  no  longer  children ;  though  my  heart  goes  out  towards 
these  dearly  beloved  ones   with   the   tenderest  yearnings. 
Pictures  of  our  early  days  of  wedded  love  are  ever  lingering 
in  my  imagination.     I  dream  of  the  sweet  fire-side  circle  :  I 
see  ever  before  me  the  ever  placid  face  of  my  Alice,  as  her 
eyes  looked  into  my  own  with  intelligent  confidence.     I  feel 
her  arms  twine  about  my  neck ;  the  music  of  her  voice  is 
ever  sounding  in  my  ears.' 

Here  the  speaker's  emotion  overcame  him.  His  utterance 
became  choked,  and  he  stood  silent  with  bowed  head  and 
trembling  limbs.  The  dense  mass  of  people  were  hushed 
into  an  oppressive  stillness,  that  was  broken  here  and  there 
by  half  stifled  sobs.     At  this  moment  there  was  a  movement 


278  TEMPERANCE    TALE. 

in  the  crowd.  A  single  female  figure,  before  whom  every 
one  appeared  instinctively  to  give  way,  was  seen  passing  up 
the  aisle.  This  was  not  observed  by  Delancy,  until  she  had 
come  nearly  in  front  of  the  platform  on  which  he  stood. 
Then  the  movement  caught  his  ear,  and  lifting  his  eyes,  that 
instant  fell  on  Alice ;  for  it  was  she  that  was  pressing  on- 
ward; he  bent  forward  towards  her  with  suddenly  lifted 
hands  and  eager  eyes,  and  stood  like  a  statue,  until  she  had 
gained  the  stand  and  advancing  quickly  to  his  side.  For  a 
moment  the  two  stood  thus,  the  whole  audience  thrilled  with 
the  scene,  were  upon  their  feet  and  bending  forward.  Then 
Delancy  opened  his  arms,  and  Alice  threw  herself  upon  his 
bosom  with  a  quick  wild  gesture.  Thus,  for  the  full  space  of  a 
minute,  they  stood ;  every  one  fully,  as  by  a  singular  intui- 
tion, understanding  the  scene.  One  of  the  ministers  then 
came  forward  and  gently  separated  them. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Delancy,  "  you  must  not,  you  cannot  take 
her  away  from  me." 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  do  that,"  replied  the  minister. 
"  By  your  own  confession  she  is  not  your  wife." 

"  No,  she  is  not,"  returned  Delancy  mournfully. 

"But  is  ready  to  take  up  her  vows  again,"  Alice  said, 
smiling  through  tears  that  now  rained  over  her  face. 

Before  that  large  assembly,  all  standing  and  with  few  dry 
eyes,  was  said  in  a  broken  voice,  the  marriage  ceremony  that 
gave  Delancy  and  Alice  to  each  other.  As  the  minister,  an 
aged  man,  with  thin  white  locks,  finished  the  rite,  he  laid  his 
hands  upon  the  heads  of  the  two  he  had  joined  in  holy  bonds, 
and  lifting  up  his  aged  eyes,  that  streamed  with  drops  of 
gladness,  he  said,  in  a  solemn  voice: — 

"What  God  has  joined  together,  let  not  rum  put  asunder." 

"  Amen  1"  was  cried  by  the  whole  assembly,  as  with  a 
single  voice. 


*rHE    CHILD    AND    THE    CHRISTIAN    HERMIT.  279 


.9b 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  CHRISTIAN  HERMIT. 


Day  succeeded  day.  and- the  child  was  still  the  guest  of  the 
pious  hermit. 

Sometimes  the  forest  was  the  chosen  spot  for  their  rambles ; 
and  it  was  always  a  source  of  pure  joy  to  the  innocent  child 
to  watch  the  noble  stag,  with  branching  head,  bounding  swift- 
ly through  the  glade,  or  the  dappled  fawn  pursuing  its  gam- 
bols through  the  leafy  dell ; — the  merry  squirrel,  too,  leaping 
from  bough  to  bough,  excited  his  infant  wonder. 

At  other  times  the  sea-shore  attracted  their  roving  steps ; 
and  the  child  loved  to  seek  the  beautiful  shells  that  lay  im- 
bedded in  the  glittering  sands ;  and  then  his  aged  friend 
taught  him  to  observe  how  wonderfully  the  Divine  power  was 
displayed  in  the  infinite  variety  of  the  form,  color,  and  size 
of  these  shells. 

One  evening,  as  they  stood  admiring  the  vast  expanse  of 
waters,  the  venerable  man,  as  he  was  wont,  explaining  to  the 
S^entle  child  the  never-ending  wonders  of  the  Creator's  hand, 
Ihe  scene  became  suddenly  changed.     The  winds  moaned 


280  THE  CHILD    AND    THE    CHRISTIAN    HERMIT.' 

wildly, — clouds  gathered  fast,  and  the  billows  rose  to  a  fearful 
height.  The  lurid  lightning  flashed,  and  the  thimder-claps 
"  pealed  solemnly,  convulsing  heaven  and  earth." 

On  the  verge  of  the  horizon  a  stately  ship  was  seen  buffet- 
inor  the  waves  : — signals  of  distress  reached  the  shore.  Stout- 
hearted  mariners  in  vain  attempted  to  brave  the  tempest,  and 
to  risk  their  lives  to  save  those  of  their  fellow-men.  Not  a 
boat  could  live.  Louder  and  louder  rolled  the  thunder,  and 
the  wind  raged  horribly  across  the  howling  waste  of  the  migh- 
ty ocean. 

The  affrighted  child  clung  to  his  aged  conductor.  His  silk- 
en locks  floated  loosely  in  the  rough  blast,  and  his  dimpled 
cheek  became  pale  with  terror. 

The  hermit's  countenance  was  placid.  "  My  child,"  he  said, 
"tempestuous  winds  arise,  and  thunders  roar,  and  vivid  light- 
nings flash,  but — the  Almighty  'ridoji^upon  the  whirlwind, 
and  directs  the  storm.' " 

Then  wrapping  the  trembling  infant  in  the  folds  of  his  ample 
robe,  he  bore  him  in  his  arms  to  his  humble  home. 

With  kind  and  cheering  words  he  soothed  the  child,  and 
told  him  that  sweet  story  of  our  blessed  Lord's  calm  slumber 
in  the  ship,  when,  tempest-tossed,  his  terrified  disciples,  in 
their  want  of  faith,  disturbed  his  peaceful  rest.  He  told  him 
how  the  Saviour  rebuked  the  sea  and  roaring  winds,  and  how 
his  mandate,  given  in  these  emphatic  words,  "  Peace,  be  still !" 
was  instantly  obeyed. 

The  child  listened  with  eager  interest, — and  when  the  old 
man  paused,  he  said,  "  And  that  brave  ship, — where  is  she 
now  ? — and  all  her  crew  ? — are  they  preserved  ?" 

The  generous  feeling  of  the  child,  that  made  him  think  of 
others'  safety,  though  secure  himself,  pleased  his  benevolent 
friend,  and  he  answered,  "Their  fate  is  hidden  from  us,  but 
we  will  pray  for  that  unhappy  ship." 

So  the  aged  man  and  the  innocent  child  knelt  down,  and 
prayed  for  the  hapless  mariner,  and  the  way-faring  man.  Then 
they  retired  to  rest,  knowing  that  God  was  their  ark  of  safety 
and  their  covert  from  the  tempest. 


THE   CHILD   AND   THE    CHRISTIAN   HERMIT.  281 

Calm  was  the  morn  when  the  old  man  and  the  child  ai-ose 
from  their  peaceful  slumbers.  No  signs  of  the  late  tempest 
remained.  All  was  serene  ; — the  lofty  pines  and  the  stately- 
oaks,  the  blue-topped  mountains  and  the  stupendous  cliffs, 
reared  their  heads  to  the  skies, — no  terrific  whirlwind  nor  re- 
verberating thunder  disturbing  their  profound  tranquillity. 
The  thick  grassy  banks,  enamelled  with  daisies,  harebells, 
and  wild  geraniums,  were  reflected  in  the  limpid  rill,  as  it 
murmured  gently  amid  the  smooth  pebbles.  Gorgeous  but- 
terflies waved  their  gladsome  wings  merrily  over  the  fragrant 
flowers,  and  swarms  of  bees  fluttered  about,  culling  every 
honey-drop,  and  hastening  away  to  deposit  their  store  in  their 
waxen  cells.  Brilliant  dewy  gems  glittered  on  every  emerald 
spray,  and  songs  of  joy  resounded  througli  the  balmy  air. 

The  hermit  led  his  infant  charge  where  golden  fields  claim- 
ed the  reaper's  care.  "Last  night,"  he  said,  "impetuous 
blasts  menaced  destruction  to  this  ripened  corn  ;  and  thus  the 
storms  of  sorrow  often  threaten  to  overwhelm  the  sons  of 
men.  But  they  are  sent  to  purify  the  heart,  to  root  up  evil 
passions,  and  to  bring  forth  faith  and  love,  humility  and  pious 
zeal.  A  field  of  wheat  is  like  the  world :  tares  and  weeds  are 
found  among  the  corn,  and  the  bad  seed  is  suffered  to  remain 
awhile.  But  when  the  harvest  comes,  the  sickle  cuts  down 
all  together.  So,  death  mows  down  the  rich  and  poor,  the 
humble  Christian  and  the  sinful  man.  Here,  we  must  strive 
to  fit  ourselves  for  heaven.  God  will  his  Holy  Spirit  grant  to 
aid  us  in  the  work,  for  that  alone  can  prosper  the  endeavor. 
And  may  we  not  some  useful  lesson  learn  of  every  living 
thing?  When  the  bird  lightly  cleaves  the  air,  warbling  his 
sweet  notes,  shall  not  our  hearts  spring  to  the  great  First 
Cause  of  all  created  beings  ? — shall  we  not  join  the  hymn  of 
praise  raised  by  the  hum  of  happy  insects  ?  Is  it  not  God 
who  makes  the  grain  of  wheat,  deep  buried  in  the  ground, 
spring  again  to  life,  for  our  support  ?  From  Him  alone  pro- 
ceed the  genial  dews,  the  cheering  sunbeams,  the  refreshing 
rains,  so  necessary  to  the  production  of  the  fruits  of  the  earth. 
It  is  His  Spirit  that  breathes  in  the  gentle  zephyrs,  and  that 


282  THE    CHILD    AND    THE    CHRISTIAN    HERMIT. 

rules  the  storm.  He  is  with  us,  now,  my  child,  in  this  ridi 
field  laden  with  blessings  for  the  sons  of  men.  He  is  with 
the  desolate  and  the  oppressed,  who  cry  to  him  for  succor. 
He  is  with  the  lowly  penitent,  whom  the  proud  ones  of  this 
world  scorn  ;  and  he  is  with  the  veiled  seraphs,  who,  at  the 
foot  of  his  resplendent  throne,  have  the  high  privilege  of 
sounding,  on  their  celestial  lyres,  the  praises  of  the  glorious 
God. 

-  The  child  marked  the  enthusiasm  of  his  aged  friend,  and 
hung  upon  his  accents  with  all  the  endearing  eagerness  of  one 
who  fears  to  lose  a  note  of  some  rare  melody.  His  beaming 
eyes  wandered  not  from  the  venerable  hermit's  benignant 
countenance,  which,  as  he  spoke,  became  so  lighted  up  with 
all  the  pure  emotions  of  his  gi'ateful  heart,  that  one  might  al- 
most have  imagined  the  beloved  disciple — the  holy  and  inspir- 
ed John — was  come  once  more  to  visit  this  fallen  earth,  and 
give  again  his  gentle  admonitions  to  mankind. 

Summer  had  passed  away,  and  autumn  was  fast  following 
in  its  train.  The  landscape  was  embrowned  with  the  many 
deepening  shades  of  the  umbrageous  woods. 

As  the  child  wandered  through  the  saddened  grove,  and 
marked  the  leaf-strewn  walks,  and  watched  the  shivering  birds 
sitting  on  the  bare  trees,  his  little  heart  gi-ew  heavy.  No  dragon- 
fly, with  net-work  wings,  nor  other  gorgeous  insect,  cross- 
ed his  path.  Dry  withered  leaves  alone  danced  mystically 
round  and  round  in  the  breeze,  like  some  strange  visitants 
from  another  world. 

The  dog  was  his  companion  in  these  rambles  ;  and  when 
the  evenings  became  chii]  and  dark,  the  faithful  animal  would, 
in  his  own  expressive  way,  remind  the  child  that  he  must  bend 
his  steps  towards  home.  And  the  aged  man,  by  his  kind  in- 
structions and  mild  discourse,  made  the  hours  pass  swiftly  by. 
"  Come,"  he  would  say,  '•'  my  gentle  child,  let  us  recall  some 
of  the  days  of  pleasure  that  are  gone,  when  together  we  roam- 
ed through  shady  groves,  or  flowery  meads,  seeking  and  find- 
ing the  Creator  on  every  side.  Ofttimes  we  have  enjoyed  the 
melodious  matin  songs  of  the  lark,  and  the  evening  lay  of  the 


THE    CHILD    AND   THE  CHRISTIAN   HERMIT.  283 

nightingale.  We  have  risen  at  early  dawn,  and  have  seen  the 
mountains  gradually  assume  their  verdant  robe; — and  we 
have  stood  in  pious  admiration  when  the  sun  has  set  in  cloud- 
less majesty,  tinging  the  rocks  and  hills  with  hues  of  gold  and 
purple.  The  supreme  wisdom  of  God  has  been  our  daily 
theme  ;  and  we  have  seen  it  displayed  in  the  air  and  in  the 
waters,  in  the  forest  and  in  the  field,  in  the  bird  and  in  the  in- 
sect, in  the  quadruped  and  in  ourselves.  We  have  seen  that 
in  the  dew-drop  God  is  visible  as  truly  as  in  the  boundless 
ocean  ;  that  in  the  glow-worm's  tiny  lamp  his  power  gleams 
forth  as  truly  as  in  the  Itarry  firmament  above  ;  that  in  the 
softest  whisperings  of  the  summer  breeze  His  voice  is  heard, 
as  well  as  in  the  whirlwind's  blast ; — and  now,  that  the  face 
of  nature  is  so  changed,  and  winter  with  rapid  step  advances, 
— now  that  the  days  are  short,  and  the  nights  are  long, — let 
us  still  improve  the  passing  moments,  and  contemplate  the 
infinite  goodness,  wisdom,  and  power  of  Him  who  made  spring- 
time and  summer,  autumn  and  winter." 

Sometimes  the  benevolent  recluse  read  from  the  sacred  vol- 
ume the  words  of  life  and  love,  v/hilst  the  child  sat  at  his  feet, 
in  fixed  attention,  his  cherub  countenance  glowing  with  de- 
light, or  melting  into  an  expression  of  tender  sorrow,  as  the 
heart-stirring  narrative  of  our  Saviour's  life  on  earth  fell  on 
his  ear.  One  night,  as  the  hermit  read  the  touching  words, 
"Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not," 
— the  child  dropped  on  his  knees ;  he  clasped  his  little  hands- 
and  raised  his  innocent  blue  eyes  to  heaven,  and  he  whispered 
an  humble  prayer.  And  the  aged  man  looked  upon  the  child, 
and  extended  his  hands,  and  placed  them  on  the  infant's  head, 
and  blessed  him. 

Then  the  child  rose,  and  hiding  his  face  in  the  hermit's  bo- 
som, sobbed  aloud.  Happiness  and  love,  not  sorrow,  nor  er- 
ror, drew  forth  this  emotion  ;  his  heart  was  touched  by  God's 
own  hand,  and  his  spirit  responded  to  the  "  still  small  voice" 
of  his  Maker. 

Now  winter  was  come.     The  fields  and  woods,  the  moun 


284  THE    CHILD    AND  THE   CHRISTIAN    HERMIT. 

tains  and  valleys,  were  covered  with  dazzling  snow,  and  the 
light  hoar-frost  sparkled  on  the  trees. 

The  aged  man  pointed  out  to  the  child  the  heauties  of  the 
wintry  landscape.  The  laurel  and  the  twining  ivy  had  pre- 
served their  verdure,  and  the  deep  green  leaves  of  the  yew- 
tree  looked  cheerful  amid  its  snow-clad  brethren  of  the  forest. 

The  hermit  then  explained  the  utility  of  snow, — how  it 
protects  the  vegetable  world  from  the  icy  blasts  of  winter.  He 
spoke  also  of  God's  providential  care  of  animals,  in  giving 
some  a  covering  of  warm  thick  fur,  which  guards  them  from 
the  cold, — how  others  pass  the  inclenftnt  season  in  a  dormant 
state ;  or  others,  having,  during  the  summer,  deposited  a  store 
of  food,  find  an  asylum  in  crevices  of  rocks,  in  hollow  trees, 
mined  walls,  or  caverns.  Then  he  told  of  the  migration  of 
certain  birds  as  winter  approaches,  and  of  their  wonderful  in- 
stinct, which  enables  them  to  pursue  their  journey  through 
the  trackless  paths  of  the  air,  to  milder  climes,  and,  when 
spring  reappears,  to  find  their  way  back  to  their  old  nests. 

"  My  child,"  said  the  aged  man,  '"'here  again  is  a  lesson  for 
us.  The  same  God  who  so  mysteriously  directs  these  birds 
of  passage,  will  surely  conduct,  with  equal  care  and  wisdom, 
one  whom  he  has  blessed  with  reason. 

"Let  us  then  follow  the  road  of  duty  which  his  tender  mer- 
cy appoints  for  us,  for  '  His  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness,  and 
all  His  paths  are  peace.'  And,  my  child,  let  us  not  forget  that 
'riature  is  a  school  for  the  heart ;'  and  the  contemplation  of 
God's  providence  and  goodness  to  man  ought  to  excite  in  us  a 
desire  to  do  good  to  all  his  creatures.  The  child  of  God  will 
strive  to  imitate  his  heavenly  parent  in  deeds  of  kindness  and 
benevolence.  The  rich  will  comfort  the  poor, — will  adminis- 
ter to  their  necessities,  and  encourage  them  in  active  industry. 
The  poor  will  not  neglect  the  opportunities  they  possess  of 
employing  their  time  usefully  ;  and  they  will  trust,  for  a  bless- 
ing on  their  eflforts,  to  that  unerring  and  beneficent  Being 
who  has  caused  the  green  herb  to  grow  for  the  cattle,  and  has 
taught  the  birds  to  build  ^eir  nests  ;  'who  has  made  the  h'^^ 
hills  for  a  refuge  for  the  wild  goats. 


BATTLE   MONUMENT.  286 


BATTLE  MONUMENT— BALTIMORE. 

EDITORIAL. 
With   a   Steel  Engraving. 

The  last  war  with  Great  Britain,  was  signalised  by  some 
events  which  served  to  illustrate  the  bravery  of  those  who, 
in  seasons  of  great  emergency  and  alarm,  were  summoned 
to  grasp  the  weapons  of  war,  to  defend  their  soil  and  their 
firesides  against  ruthless  invaders,  and  contend  too  with  a  foe 
superior  in  numbers  and  discipline,  and  flushed  with  recent 
success.  Among  these  memorable  events,  the  defence  of 
the  City  of  Baltimore  from  the  attack  of  the  British  at  North 
Point,  and  the  bombardment  of  Fort  M'Henry,  may  be  men- 
tioned with  honor.  After  capturing  Washington,  and  dis- 
gracing themselves  by  the  wanton  and  vandal  like  destrnc- 
tion  of  public  property,  the  British  army  commanded  by 
General  Ross,  re-embarked  on  board  Admiral  Cochrane's 
fleet  and  proceeded  up  the  Chesapeake.  On  the  12th  of 
September,  the  land  forces  numbering  six  thousand,  were 
landed  at  North  Point,  and  commenced  their  march  towards 
the  city  of  Baltimore,  situated  fourteen  miles  from  the  mouth 
of  the  Potapsco.  General  Striker  was  despatched  with 
three  thousand  two  hundred  men  from  the  city,  to  keep  the 
enemy  in  check.  On  the  12th  September,  a  severe  battle 
was  fought.  The  American  General,  finding  himself  con- 
tending against  fearful  odds,  the  majority  of  his  army  having 
fled  in  confusion,  made  good  his  retreat.  But  the  little  band 
of  heroes  fought  so  valiantly,  that  the  attempt  to  gain  pos- 
session of  the  city  was  abandoned  by  the  enemy,  who, 
during  the  night  of  the  13th  retired  to  their  shipping,  having 
lost  among  their  killed,  the  commander-in-chief.  General 
Ross.  The  loss  of  the  Americans  in  killed  and  wounded, 
amounted  to  one  hundred  and  sixty-three,  among  whom 
were  some  of  the  most  respectable  citizens  of  Baltimore. 

To  commemorate  so  great  a  deliverance,  and  perpetuate 
the  name  and  deeds  of  those  men  who  fell  in  the  defence  of 
their  city,  a  noble  monument  was  raised  at  an  expense  of 


286  BATTLE    MONUMENT. 

sixty  thousand  dollars.  It  was  planned  by  Maximilian 
Godefroy,  and  for  propriety  of  design  as  well  as  for  the 
masterly  execution  of  its  various  parts,  it  is  probably  not 
equalled  by  any  work  of  similar  character.  The  height  of 
the  monument  including  the  statue,  is  52  feet,  2  inches.  It 
is  composed  of  pure  white  marble,  and  rests  upon  a  square 
terrace  of  the  same  material,  40  feet  square  and  4  feet  high. 

From  the  platform  rises  a  square  Egyptian  basement,  en- 
tirely rusticated,  composed  of  eighteen  layers  of  stone,  de- 
noting the  number  of  the  States  at  the  time  of  erecting  the 
monument.  Above,  on  the  principal  part  of  the  monument, 
are  inscribed  in  letters  of  bronze  the  names  of  those  who  were 
killed  in  defending  their  city.  The  Statue  is  surmounted  by 
a  female  figure,  representing  the  city  of  Baltimore. 

All  who  visit  this  monument  are  struck  with  its  beauty ; 
and  the  interest  which  is  awakened  in  those  who  view  it  as 
a  noble  specimen  of  architectural  skill,  is  greatly  enhanced 
when  viewed  as  an  enduring  testimonial  of  gratitude  towards 
those  who  were  willing  to  lay  down  their  lives  for  their  fel- 
low-citizens. As  a  work  of  exquisite  taste  and  beauty,  "  the 
Battle  Monument,"  is  an  ornament  to  the  city ;  as  a  memo- 
rial of  the  people's  gratitude  and  respect  for  the  fallen,  it  is 
touching.  But,  notwithstanding  the  honors  which  the  living 
shower  upon  the  dead,  we  see  nought  in  war  but  to  deplore. 
Is  there  anything  amiable  in  the  spirit  of  war?  Does  it  par- 
take of  the  nature  of  brotherly  love  and  kindness  ? — Kill  is 
the  word — kill — not  save  !  Blood  is  fhe  cry,  blood  !  Is  it 
a  benevolent  act  to  draw  the  sword  upon  a  personally  unof- 
fending brother  ? — to  slay  man  after  man — to  send  soul  after 
soul  to  a  dread  eternity  ?  Is  this  the  way  to  acquire  true 
glory?  Is  it  for  this  that  the  monumental  pile  is  raised,  to 
dazzle  men  with  false  glory  ? 

What  spirit  is  that  which  impels  men  to  vex  and  destroy 
one  another  ?  its  nature  and  origin  cannot  be  mistakened. 
Oh,  when  shall  the  spirit  of  war  die  in  the  world  !  when 
shall  the  church  be  exorcised,  and  the  spirit  of  love  and  peace 
dwell  in  every  bosom  ?  when  shall  the  war  spirit  be  cast  out, 
and  man  no  longer  lift  his  hand  against  his  fellow  man  ! 


THE    LIFE    OP    TREES.  287 


Original. 

THE    LIFE    OF    TREES. 

BY      MISS      B.      CHICKERING. 

It  was  an  Autumn  day.  The  touch  of  decay  and  change 
was  on  the  life  and  beauty  of  the  Summer,  while  few  of  the 
richly  colored  leaves  had  yet  fallen,  and  the  withering  flow- 
er stalks  still  cherished  their  faded  dependants.  The  wind 
rushed  ruthlessly  along,  as  if  it  would  contemn  and  annoy 
the  altered  state  of  the  decaying.  A  sober  Sun  was  much 
of  the  day  hidden  by  sailing  clouds,  while  a  clear  atmosphere 
revealed  every  phase  of  nature.  My  spirit  was  in  bondage 
and  heaviness.  Days  of  the  past  were  present  with  me,  sea- 
sons of  spring-time,  when  the  World  and  human  life  seemed 
full  of  hope  and  gladness,  ere  disease,  with  his  heavy  form 
and  dark  visage,  had  made  other  than  transient  visits  'mid 
our  household  band,  ere  death  had  cut  down,  or  changes 
more  painful  than  the  christian's  death  had  blighted,  cher- 
ished objects  of  affection.  The  trees  of  the  forest  and  field 
were  before  me  as  their  fruit  and  their  verdure  had  left  them. 
As  I  looked  on  them,  and  remembered  all  their  state  since,  a 
few  months  before,  I  saw  them  budding  in  hope  and  rich  in 
promise,  my  heart  went  out  to  them  as  fellow-sharers  in  a 
lot  of  loss  and  change.  I  questioned  them  of  their  joys  and 
their  sadness — and  thus  was  answer  made  to  me.  "  We  re- 
member with  you  when  we  burst  the  bonds  of  Winter,  and 
rejoiced  in  the  returning  Sun  and  soft  airs  of  the  Spring. 
We  remember  when  we  were  clothed  in  fulness,  and  decked 
in  bloom.  Our  breath  was  fragrance,  and  in  conscious  joy 
we  spread  our  arms  to  shelter,  and  waved  our  branches  to 
refresh.     All  who  saw  us  delighted  in  us,  and  rejoiced  in 


288  THE    LIFE    OF    TREES. 

what  we  further  promised.  Our  fruits  were  gathered  with 
gladness,  and  still  did  the  eye  and  heart  of  man  bless  us. 
But  we  knew  even  then,  that  was  not  all  our,  life,  nor  yet 
was  it  our  own  ;  we  were  but  fulfiling  an  appointed  course, 
and  therefore  were  we  gentle  and  humble  in  our  gladness 
and  glory,  and  therefore  are  we  now  meek  and  faithful, 
though  the  biting  frost  and  relentless  wind  strip  our  branches, 
and  Winter's  cold  comes  on  apace,  and  man  will  soon  regard 
us  not,  but  as  he  gazes  through  our  "  wintry  bareness,"  at  the 
changing  sky.  But  He  who  made  us  forgets  us  not.  Daily 
does  the  Sun  rise  and  bless  us  with  his  light,  though  clouds 
may  conceal,  the  waters  above  and  beneath  lend  us  refresh- 
ment ;  His  mantle  protects  us.  He  teacheth  us  defence  and 
preparation,  by  the  wind  and  storm.  He  trains  us  in 
strength,  and  when  His  voice  again  bids  us  forth  in  fulness 
and  beauty,  it  finds  us  prepared.  His  loving  kindness  fail- 
eth  not,  and  our  life  fulfils  this  end,  and  so  doth  rejoice." 

And  when  I  had  heard  this  I  loved  the  trees  yet  more,  and 
rejoiced  in  their  teachings,  and  my  heart  asked  if  they,  so 
trusting  and  faithful  through  change  and  desolation,  should 
not  know  at  last  a  life  of  immortal  bloom.  And  this  answer 
was  made  to  me. — "  Enough  for  thee  that  their  lessons  lay 
hold  of  immortality.  By  these,  and  all  the  works  of  His 
hand,  the  Creator  and  Faiher  speaks  to  thee  of  truths  and 
duties.  His  word  has  more  clearly  revealed.  Thou  hast 
heard  but  a^art.  Listen,  and  mortality  shall  speak  to  thee 
of  eternal  life — decay  and  change  and  revolution  whisper  of 
endurance,  abiding  and  rest.  And  then  how  blest  did  I  feel 
it  to  be  immortal,  for  I  believed  Him  who  hath  said — "  I  am 
the -Life,"  and  by  His  word  hath  assured  the  believer  that 
because  Christ  lives,  he  shall  live  also.  And  I  saw  it  is 
blessed  to  live  in  Him  by  faith  here — Himself  hath  said,  "  It 
is  eternal  life."  His  gracious  supplies  shall  not  cease,  our 
way  and  our  end  are  for  Him,  and  His  designs  shall  not 
fail. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   RACE.  289 

Original. 

THE    CHRISTIAN    RACE. 

BY    A.    V.    C.    SCHENCK,    N.    YORK. 

The  life  of  the  christian  is  beautifully  and  forcibly  illus- 
trated by  the  Apostle  in  his  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews.  He 
there  compares  it  to  a  race  in  the  Isthmaean  games.  The 
comparison  may  not  seem  to  us  to  be  of  much  force,  but  to 
the  Greek  and  to  all  who  read  his  Epistle  it  was  full  of 
meaning,  for  it  brought  vividly  before  their  minds  the  ex- 
citing scenes  which  they  were  so  frequently  accustomed  to 
witness.  It  brought  to  mind  that  amusement  in  which  the 
whole  people  took  such  an  intense  delight — the  Games,  to 
which  they  looked  forward  with  eager  anticipation.  In  the 
presence  of  the  monarch  and  heroes  and  statesmen  and  as- 
sembled thousands  of  the  people,  the  exercises  of  the  gladia- 
torial show  were  performed.  Racing  was  one  of  the  most 
important  of  these  exercises,  and  every  care  was  taken  that 
those  who  engaged  in  it  should  be  well  prepift-ed,  by  long 
exercise  and  discipline.  The  Games  were  held  in  such  high 
estimation,  that  many  were  designed  and  trained  for  them 
from  their  very  infancy ;  and  those  who  were  already  exalted 
in  office,  or  in  fame,  thought  it  not  beneath  their  dignity  to  take 
part  in  them,  and  earnestly  desired  the  honor  of  winning  the 
prize.  As  the  runner  enters  the  arena  and  prepares  himself 
for  the  strife,  what  emotions  of  anxiety,  of  hope  and  dread 
possess  him.  He  is  about  to  act  in  the  most  important  event 
of  his  life ;  to  engage  in  a  struggle  which  will  require  the 
utmost  exertion  of  his  strength.  He  is  compassed  about 
with  a  great  cloud  of  witnesses.  Seat  above  seat  in  that 
vast  amphitheatre  is  crowded  with  spectators.  Thousands 
are  about  him  on  every  side,  and  all  these  shall  presently 
give  forth  shouts  of  applause  and  satisfaction  for  him  as  a 
successful  runner,  or  to  his  sorrow  and  mortification,  they 


290  THE    CHRISTIAN    RACE. 

will  be  given  to  his  competitor  as  the  winner  of  the  prize. 
But  for  the  applause  or  derision  of  that  great  audience  he 
cares  little,  when  yonder  he  sees  a  father,  awaiting  with 
anxious  heart  the  issue  of  the  contest.  Yonder  also  are 
brothers  and  friends,  vainly  endeavoring  to  foretell  the  result 
of  his  strife,  and  their  suspense  is  almost  as  hard  to  be  borne, 
as  the  disgrace  of  his  defeat.  He  "  lays  aside  every  weight." 
Everything  which  will  encumber  him  while  running — every- 
thing which  will  in  the  least  impede  his  motions  and  activity, 
that  there  may  be  nothing  to  hinder  him  in  his  course.  The 
race  begins.  The  countless  multitudes  are  hushed  to  silence, 
and  look  with  steady  and  eager  gaze  upon  the  competitors. 
The  runner  feels  that  there  are  present  those  who  have  an 
intense  interest  in  his  contest,  and  before  whom  he  would 
hardly  dare  to  appear  if  declared  vanquished..  He  imagines 
he  can  almost  feel  their  gaze,  as  their  eyes  are  fixed  upon 
him  ;  their  hearts  now  sinking  with  feal*,  now  elated  with 
hope,  as  they  see  him  give  signs  of  faltering  or  weakness,  or 
exerting  himself  to  the  utmost,  first  to  reach  the  goal.  But 
he  perseveres,  for  he  well  knows  that  the  honor  which  will 
be  his  if  victorious,  is  worthy  of  his  greatest  efl^orts ;  happy 
will  be  his  friends,  thrice  happy  will  be  his  family.  They 
will  partake  of  his  honor,  and  even  his  native  city  will  be 
more  highly  esteemed  on  account  of  his  glorious  achieve- 
ment. The  race  is  run  and  he  has  obtained  the  victory. 
His  form  expands  and  becomes  more  erect  with  a  feeling  of 
conscious  superiority.  He  goes  forth  before  the  people  pre- 
ceded by  the  herald,  who  announces  his  name  and  country  ; 
all  eyes  are  turned  upon  him  in  admiration,  and  the  enthusi- 
astic and  reiterated  applause  of  the  immense  assemblage  is 
delightful  to  his  ears.  He  has  attained  the  highest  honor  to 
which  he  aspires,  and  will  ever  be  looked  upon  as  the 
achiever  of  a  glorious  victory.  The  crown  of  laurel  is 
placed  upon  his  brow.  He  ascends  the  triumphal  chariot, 
and  is  boi-ne  to  his  native  city  amidst  the  plaudits  and  praises 
of  the  delighted  people. 

This  scene  scarcely  inferior  in  honor  and  in  splendor  to  a 


THE   CHRISTIAN    RACE.  9.01 

triumph  at  Rome,  Paul  presents  as  an  illustration  of  the 
christian's  life.  Like  the  runner  in  the  Games,  we  are  sur- 
rounded by  a  great  cloud  of  witnesses.  Not  only  those  who 
daily  behold  us  and  know  that  we  are  professing  to  seek  the 
prize  of  eternal  glory,  are  witnesses  of  our  contest ;  we  have 
witnesses  far  superior  to  them  in  number  and  in  character, 
even  "  an  innumerable  company  of  angels,  the  general  as- 
sembly and  church  of  the  first-born  which  are  written  in 
Heaven,  God  the  Judge  of  all,  the  spirits  of  just  men  made 
perfect,  and  Jesus  the  Mediator  of  the  new  covenant.  Truly 
these  are  a  cloud  to  us.  They  breathe  a  purer  atmosphere 
than  that  in  which  we  live,  for  they  dwell  in  the  presence  of 
the  Most  High.  There  are  the  martyrs,  the  apostles,  the 
prophets,  nnd  those  whom  our  own  eyes  have  beheld  as  they 
once  ran  their  race  upon  Earth.  These  encourage  and 
refresh  us,  as  the  clouds  refresh  the  parched  Earth  with 
rain.  We  have  their  bright  examples  to  follow.  They  have 
passed  over  the  road  we  are  now  pursuing,  and  we  can 
follow  on  in  their  footsteps,  encouraged  and  nerved  to  exert 
our  utmost  strength  to  reach  the  glorious  prize  set  before  us. 
Warned  by  the  dangers  into  which  they  fell,  and  aware 
through  their  experience  of  the  manifold  hinderances  which 
the  Christian  runner  experiences,  and  seeking  assistance 
where  they  did  not  seek  it  in  vain,  we  can  press  steadily 
forward  with  a  good  hope  of  success.  Like  the  runner  also, 
there  are  those  among  our  witnesses,  who  have  a  peculiar 
interest  in  the  scene  and  feel  concerned  in  the  result.  Not 
only  those  who  like  ourselves  are  striving  for  the  mastery, 
but  those  who  once  ran  with  us,  but  have  finished  their 
course  and  obtained  an  immortal  crown — these  are  looking 
upon  us  with  fear,  when  we  show  an  inclination  to  return  to 
the  pursuit  of  this  world's  good,  and  with  hope  when  we 
manifest  a  renewed  desire  to  be  free  from  the  burden  of  sin 
and  a  determination  to  persevere  in  our  course.  Though 
no  pain  can  enter  the  blessed  abode  of  the  redeemed — though 
sorrow  can  find  no  resting  place  in  the  hearts  of  those  who 
behold  the  face  of  the  Father,  yet  none  of  them  are  unin- 


292  THE    CHRISTIAN    RACE. 

terested  spectators  of  our  course.  They  do  not  see  those 
whom  they  still  love,  pursuing  the  road  which  leads  to  Hea- 
ven and  happiness  without  rejoicing,  neither  can  they  without 
a  feeling  of  regret,  behold  us  cumbering  ourselves  with  the 
clogs  and  weights  of  sin. 

If  we  are  successful  in  the  Christian  course  we  shall,  like 
the  runner  receive  a  crown,  but  how  unlike  his.  He  runs 
"  to  obtain  a  corruptible  crown,  but  we  an  incorruptible." 
The  laurel  will  soon  begin  to  fade  and  lose  its  grace  and 
beauty.  Its  lustre  departs  and  the  eye  no  longer  dwells 
upon  its  elegance  with  delight.  Ere  long,  it  moulders  and 
crumbles  away  and — is  gone.  But  the  bright  crown  of 
glory  which  the  Christian  shall  wear  when  he  has  finished 
his  course  and  is  declared  the  victor,  is  incorruptible.  One 
jot  of  its  bright  original  glory  shall  never  be  lost.  Through- 
out the  endless  cycles  of  eternity,  it  ceases  not  for  a  moment 
to  shine  with  that  splendor  which  is  a  reflection  of  God's 
own  glory.  The  beauty  of  it  is  unsullied,  and  its  purity 
untarnished  while  God  himself  exists. 


FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS. 

THE   DANCE. 

BY      THE      EDITOR, 

The  Dance  !  What  witchery  there  is  in  the  word  !  What 
a  charm  in  the  very  sound.  The  Dance !  There's  music  in 
the  word  sweeter  and  more  entrancing  than  the  softest  mel- 
ody. It  has  a  sort  of  magic  power  over  the  young — the  hght 
hearted — the  lovers  of  pleasure.  Hope  and  Joy  leap  up  at 
the  sound  of  this  talismanic  word,  and  pleasures  come  troop- 
ing along,  pointing  to  the  scene  of  anticipated  delight,  as  the 
consummation  so  long  desired.  Visions  of  happiness  flit 
before  the  mind,  and  the  commo»  monotonous  scenes  and 
doleful  changes  of  every  day  life,  give  place  to  brightly  illu- 
minated pictures  on  which  the  immagination  feasts,  as  though 
it  were  regaling  on  a  heavenly  repast. 

What  excitement  is  like  th&t  prod  need  by  the  prospect  of 
this  merry  making  season  ?  The  excitement  of  an  elec- 
tion or  a  wedding,  bear  but  a  faint  resemblance  to  it.  The 
scrap  of  paper  which  contains  the  invitation  to  the  Dance,  is 
of  greater  worth  to  many,  than  a  valuable  bank  note  would  be. 
Indeed,  the  card  is  viewed  as  a  sort  of  ticket  in  a  splendid 
lottery  in  which  there  are  many  prizes  and  but  few  blanks, 
it  is  read  again  and  again,  to  those  who  would  rejoice  and 
repine  at  their  good  fortune.  For  weeks  the  Dance  is  almost 
the  sole  topic  of  conversation ;  little  else  is  thought  of,  or 
talked  about.  Other  topics  of  discourse  are  dull  and  unin- 
teresting to  the  lovers  of  the  dance,  and  the  expectants  of 
this  splendid  feat.  It  supplies  the  village  gossips  with  fruit- 
ful themes,  on  which  they  ring  their  doleful  changes,  through 

VOL.    VI.   NO.    9. 


298  FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMEXT9.  . 

the  long  winter  erenings,  and  the  lire  long  day;  and  the 
wave  of  excitement  sends  its  concentric  circles  even  to  the 
extreme  boundaries  of  the  city.  Volumes  might  be  made 
up  of  the  envious,  ill-natured  sayings,  and  long  and  learned 
descants  upon  the  characters  and  manners  and  dress,  of  those 
who  are  to  compose  the  gay  assembly.  If  but  a  small  frac- 
tion of  the  time  spent  in  conversation  of  so  trifling  a  nature, 
were  spent  in  rational  or  religious  discourse,  how  wise  the 
world  would  be  ! 

And,  consider  the  time  spent  in  preparation  for  such  unim- 
proving,  not  to  say  frivolous  and  demoralising  scenes.  The 
time  spent  in  adorning  the  person,  is  sufficient  to  save  the 
soul.  Nothing  will  answer  but  the  latest,  most  fashionable 
and  most  costly  styles  of  dress ;  and  be  they  what  they  may, 
it  is  sufficient,  if  they  have  a  foreign  stamp.  Hence,  the 
eagerness  with  which  the  London  and  Paris  fashions  are 
consulted.  The  time  gpent  in  shopping,  and  at  the  milliners, 
and  in  numerous  business  calls,  is  no  small  part  of  the  account. 
The  most  trifling  minuiio?  and  circumstance,  in  this  prepa- 
ration consumes  time.  Ii  is  as  though  the  fate  of  an  empire, 
or  the  salvation  of  a  soul  depended  on  the  adjustment  of  a 
ribbon,  or  the  removal  of  a  freckle.  The  preparation  is 
FINISHED  AT  THE  ToiLETTE.  And  loolving  at  the  number  of 
those  who  are  to  grace  the  scene,  who  can  calculate  the 
time  spent  before  the  glass?  and  this  in  not  a  few  instances, 
to  mend  nature's  handiwork,  to  freshen  the  bloom  that  is 
fading,  and  conceal  those  trifling  defects,  wliich  the  most 
critical  eye  would  scarcely  notice.  Even  those  who  possess 
the  charms  of  personal  beauty,  are  not  satisfied  without  .tar- 
rying long  at  the  Toilette,  and  making  thorough  preparation. 
But  alas,  how  irksome  must  be  the  labors  of  the  toilette,  to 
such  as  are  deficient  in  those  native  charms,  and  who  must 
shine  in  borrowed  feathers,  if  they  shine  at  all !  How  many 
sighs  escape  their  bosoms  while  undergoing  the  humiliating 
process  of  transformation  !  On  the  brow  of  many  a  candi- 
date for  temporal  happiness  and  honor,  have  not  the  burning 
drops  of  perspiration  stood,  the  fruit  of  envy  and  bitter  re- 


FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS.  299 

F'  pihings  ?  Alas,  that  they  should  have  overlooked  the  digni- 
ty of  an  immortal  soul,  and  the  sublime  end  of  their  creation ! 
their  highest  ambition  being  to  twinkle  for  a  moment  like 
the  glow  worm,  giving  but  a  faint  reflection  of  those  ever 
shining  orbs  which  beautify  and  adorn  the  firmament  of 
Heaven. 

We  cannot  pause  to  speak  of  the  time  wasted  by  those 
who  are  employed  as  auxiliaries  in  the  work  of  preparation, 
and  that  by  mothers  and  sisters,  and  other  near  relatives  and 
friends  ;  in  preparing  the  dear  ones  for  what  ?  not  for  a  use- 
ful and  happy  life — not  for  glory,  unless  a  fashionable  life 
and  the  Ball  room  be  the  way  to  glory. 

We  have  no  time  to  dwell  upon  the  vast  expenditures  in 
this  work  of  preparation.  It  has  been ,  estimated  that  the 
amusements  of  our  city,  when  in  full  blast,  cost  830,000  per 
week ;  one  of  the  largest  items  must  be  set  down  to  the 
Dance.  Millions  have  been  squandered,  and  fortunes  sacri- 
ficed at  this  inglorious  shrine.  Merchants,  professional  men, 
and  thrifty  mechanics,  have  been  ruined  by  the  reckless  ex- 
travagance of  their  wives  and  daughters,  too  proud  to  be 
outdone  by  their  neighbors.  Nor  with  the  worldly  tuition 
they  have  received,  need  we  be  surprised  that  wives  ancr 
daughters  should  pursue  such  a  course.  It  is  this  dancing 
education,  deemed  so  necessary  to  polish  the  manners,  which 
has  done  the  mischief. 

But  the  millions  spent  in  the  dance,  are  but  the  weight 
of  a  feather,  compared  with  the  alarming  expenditures  op 
HEALTH  and  solid  enjoyments.  This  part  of  the  statistics  of 
the  dance  cannot  but  startle  us,  especially  in  view  of  the 
sudden  disappearance  of  many  who  but  lately  adorned  the 
circles  of  fashion.  , 

The  long  wished  for  evening  has  come.  The  hall  is  light- 
ed, and  between  eight  and  nine,  the  dancers  begin  to  arrive. 
Amid  the  stream  of  life  which  flows  now  gently,  now  hastily 
along,  few  attract  marked  attention,  save  the  reigning  Belle, 
or  those  brilliant  stars  which  have  newly  risen.  The  assem- 
bly presents  an  array  of  beauty  and  fashion,  resembling  a 


300  FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS. 

Starlight  sky,  on  a  bright  summer's  evening.  Not  a  cloud 
rests  upon  that  assembly,  calm  and  lovely  as  the  face  of  a 
smiling  infant.  Look  where  you  will,  you  see  nought  but 
the  apparent  gushing  forth  of  a  well-spring  of  happiness 
within :  Surely,  they  are  all  friends  that  have  met  in  this 
festive  hall !  From  the  smiles  of  delight  that  play  upon  every 
countenance,  like  the  soft  sun-licrht  restinii  on  a  bank  of 
flowers,  we  might  infer  they  were  all  alike  happy.  But  is  it 
so  ?  In  those  rose  besprinkled  walks,  lurks  there  no  enemy  ? 
The  Ball  room  is  enchanted  ground.  Over  the  door  is  writ- 
ten— Pleasure  rules  here — all  who  come  within  the  magic 
circle,  yield  themselves  up  to  the  pleasures  of  the  hour.  In 
the  opening  scene  all  is  bright  and  joyful.  But  as  the  exhi- 
bition progresses, \ the  passions  develope  themselves;  the 
masque  drops,  and  the  ideal  gives  place  to  the  real.  It  is 
not  long,  ere  the  battle  of  caps  mingles  with  the  wrangling 
of  gallants. 

Long  ere  the  dance  is  opened.  Pride  puts  on  its  haughty 
looks  and  supercilious  air,  green-eyed  Jealousy  spies  out 
the  objects  of  its  hate,  and  Envy  whose  voracious  maw 
is  never  satisfied,  drinks  its  own  blood  in  spite.  Is  this  a 
'caricature  ?  Look  then  at  those  countenances,  ere-while 
wreathed  with  smiles  of  ineffable  delight,  now  clouded  and 
scornful ! 

The  orchestra  strikes  up — the  Dance  is  begun  !  Dunbar 
one  of  the  early  English  Poets,  wrote  a  poem  on  the  Dance, 
of  the  seven  deadly  sins.  These  were  pride,  anger,  envy, 
covetousness,  laziness,  gluttony,  etc.  If  there  is  something 
bordering  on  the  ludicrous  in  the  idea  of  the  dance  of  these 
deadly  sins,  there  is  something  so  fearfully  true  in  the  con- 
ception, as  a  personification  of  tho^e  vices,  v.'hich  may  be 
considered  both  the  offspring,  and  the  originating  cause  of 
the  dance,  that  we  cannot  make  light  of  the  representation. 
For  WHO  DANCES  FOR  THE  GLORY  OF  GoD  ?  What  man  or 
woman,  believing  in  the  essential  dignity  of  the  soul,  and 
acting  under  a  sense  of  personal  accountability  to  its  glorious 
Maker,  would  ever  condescend  to  play  such  pranks  before 


FASHIONABLE    AMUSEMENTS.  301 

high  Heaven,  and  dance  to  those  tunes  and  those  steps  which 
set  modesty  and  good  taste  at  defiance.  What  command 
have  men  and  women  over  themselves,  when  the  blood  is 
heated  and  the  soul  is  on  fire  ?  How  soon  would  the  dance 
flag  without  the  necessary  stimulus  of  beauty,  wine  and 
stirring  music  ?  What  wonder  is  it,  that  misunderstandings 
arise,  and  blood  often  flows  !  To  prevent  the  catastrophy 
of  exhausted  strength,  and  to  fire  up  the  spirits  afresh, 
a  midnight  Feast  must  be  spread,  followed  by  copious 
potations. 

Would  you  behold  the  full  blown  glories  of  the  Ball  cham- 
ber, enter  that  hall  just  as  the  clock  strikes"  one ;  the  excite- 
ment is  at  its  height — the  blood  boils — the  head  is  dizzy — 
passion  rages — this  is  the  hour  of  temptation — this  is  the 
hour  of  sacrifice  !  the  hour  perhaps  of  the  soul's  immolation. 
A  hasty  word  or  glance  is  the  seal  of  destiny.  That  night, 
is  followed  by  years  of  remorse  and  suffering.  The  dance 
IS  ovEU — but,  alas,  its  effects  remain  in  a  debilitated  frame, 
and  in  painful  reminiscenses,  which  cast  a  dismal  cloud  over 
all  the  path  of  life.  The  immagination .  will  never  loose 
those  impressions  which  were  branded  into  it,  as  with  heated 
iron  ;  and  often  as  that  festive  scene  occurs  to  the  mind, 
facts  will  speak,  which  will  give  it  a  startling  significance. 
Through  the  chill  damp  morning  air,  exhausted,  delicate 
creatures  are  seen  wending  their  way  homeward,  where 
restlessness,  head  aches  and  heart  sickness,  awaits  them. 

The  Dance,  the  most  popular  and  most  insidious  of  all 
amusements,  by  whom  is  it  patronised  1  not  surely  by  the 
sober  minded  and  devout — not  by  christian  parents.  The 
testimony  of  the  gospel  minister  can  be  of  no  equivocal 
character.  It  is  with  inexpressible  pain  we  record  the  fact 
that  the  dance  is,  to  some  extent,  not  only  countenanced,  but 
patronised  in  the  church.  The  grief  occasioned  \y  the  at- 
tendance of  the  daughters  of  one  of  our  most  eminent  minis- 
ters in  the  ball-room,  is  not  yet  forgotten ;  and  how  wide 
and  fatal  must  be  the  influence  of  such  an  example.  And 
when  distinguished  clergymen  countenance  this  fascinating 


302  I    AM    DYING. 

/ 

amusement,  what  hope  is  there,  that  the  plague  will  be 
stayed  ?  Good  men  surely  do  not  know  what  they  do,  when 
they  countenance  such  scenes.  May  not  this  be  one  great 
cause  of  the  decay  of  vital  piety  in  the  land,  and  the  preva- 
lence of  a  spirit  of  levity.  A  dancing  people  will  not  be  a 
praying  people  ;  a  nation  of  dancers,  may  become  a  nation 
of  infidels.  There  is  no  dancing  in  Heaven,  where  fruition 
is  complete — none  in  Hell,  whe/e  the  cup  of  misery  is  full ! ! 


I    AM    DYING. 

Yes,  the  hour  is  rapidly  approaching,  my  friends,  when  each 
one  of  us  shall  not  only  know  that  he  must  die,  but  shall  feel 
that  he  is  dying.  I  will  suppose  this  hour  to  arrive  under 
circumstances  most  favorable  for  forming  a  correct  and  un- 
biased estimate  of  the  value  of  every  earthly  possession.  I 
will  suppose  you  in  a  full  possession  of  your  reason  as  you 
are  at  this  moment.  I  will  suppose  all  uncertainty  respect- 
ing the  event  to  be  done  away,  that  medical  skill  has  an- 
nounced the  hour  of  your  decease,  and  that  you  already  feel 
that  indescribable  something,  which  assures  you  that  the  soul 
is  already  breaking  loose  from  her  tabernacle  of  clay.  I 
will  suppose  moreover,  that  you  have  some  adequate  con- 
ceptions of  the  strictness  of  the  law  by  which  you  must  be 
judged,  of  the  holiness_of  that  Being  before  whom  you  must 
stand,  of  the  unutterable  bliss  in  reserve  for  the  righteous, 
and  of  the  unutterable  agonies  which  await  the  wicked.  I 
will  also  suppose  you  to  be  perfectly  aware,  that  the  time 
for  repentance  is  past ;  and  that  all  which  now  remains  for 
you,  is  to  ascertain  from  the  facts  of  your  past  history, 
whether  your  life  has  or  has  not  been  spent  in  preparation 
for  eternity.  At  that  solemn  moment,  every  power  of 
thought  within  you  will  be  concerned  upon  the  question, 
Am  I  a  disciple  of  Jesus  Christ?  The  soul  asks,  and  the 
holy  oracle  answers,  Unless  a  man  deny  himself,  and  take 


I 


I    AM    DYING.  303 

up  his  cross  and  follow  me,  he  cannot  be  my  disciple.  The 
dying  man  calls  up  in  review  the  days  and  weeks  and 
months  and  years  that  are  past ;  and  in  an  agony  demands 
of  each,  Have  I  denied  myself,  have  I  taken  up  my  cross, 
have  I  followed  Christ  ?  Ah,  who  can  describe  the  despair 
of  him,  who,  from  one  and  from  all  of  them,  receives  the 
stern,  the  all-deciding  answer.  No. 

The  die  is  cast.  But  who  ,can  tell  the  horrors  of  the 
-coming  interval  ?  Terrified  at  the  gulf  before  her,  the  soul 
looks  back  upon  the  past ;  but  all  is  filled  with  horrible  vis- 
ions. Power,  rank,  applause,  learning,  all  have  bidden  her 
adieu  in  the  hour  of  her  calamity,  and  have  left  her  to  her 
Judge.  Her  very  amusements  have  turned  traitors,  and 
accused  her  of  self-destruction.  The  card  table,  the  theatre, 
the  ball-room,  speak  now  only  of  murdered  time,  and  wasied 
opportunity.  That  pampered  body,  that  vacant  mind,  those 
ungoverned  passions,  that  hoarded  gold,  all  declare  that  she 
hath  lived  unto  herself.  Behind  all  is  condemnation  ;  before 
her,  naught  is  seen  but  the  terrific  effulgence  of  the  long 
-suffering,  most  merciful,  but  abused,  insulted,  thrice  holy 
Lord  God  Almighty.  Speech  fails ;  but  the  glare  of  those 
sightless  eyeballs  telk  that  the  spirit  seeth  visions  which 
language  cannot  utter.  An  unearthly  groan,  and  all  is  still. 
The  affrighted  ghost,  in  all  the  horrors  of  self-condemnation, 
stands  before  her  Judge. 

CONSISTENCY. 

Consistency  presents  Christianity  in  her  fairest  attitude — 
in  all  her  lovely  proportion  of  figure  and  correct  symmetry 
of  feature.  Consistency  is  the  beautiful  result  of  all  the 
qualities  and  graces  of  a  truly  religious  mind  united  and 
brought  into  action,  each  individually  right,  all  relatively  as- 
sociated. Where  the  character  is  consistent,  prejudice  can- 
not ridicule,  nor  infidelity  sneer.  It  may,  indeed,  be  censured, 
as  holding  up  a  standard  above  the  attainment  of  the  care- 
less.    The  world  may  dislike,  but  it  cannot  despise  it. 


904  A  VOICE  o'er  the  waters. 

Origiaal. 

A   VOICE   O'ER    THE   WATERS. 

BY  MRS.    FRANCES   H.    W.    GREEN. 

A  voice  tfer  the  waters  comes  mournful  and  low. 
As  if  wnmg  from  the  heart-strings  of  bitterest  wo ! 
'Tis  the  Harp  of  old  Erin,  all  sobbingly  cast. 
With  its  torn  chords  exposed  to  the  pitiless  blast — 
Those  chords  that  may  waken  to  gladness  no  more,     . 
Are  bewailing  the  griefs  of  that  famine-trod  shore — 
Where  the  strong,  feeling  poor,  in  their  helplessness  lie ; 
And  the  starving  are  gathered  by  thousands  to  die ! 
All  the  spirit  of  Ireland,  all  sad  and  forlorn 
Of  her  hopes,  and  her  primeval  glory  shorn, 
Has  roused  to  expression  each  conscious  string ; 
And  her  wild  cry  is  borne  on  the  hurricane's  wing ! 

"  Daughters  of  America !  ye  who  have  brejul ! 
Think  of  our  starving — the  dying — the  dead — 
The  dead  that  we  mourn  not,  so  quiet  and  cold — 
We  envy  the  shroud,  with  its  calm  bosom-fold. 

0,  GIVE  us  BREAD  ! 

"  Fathers  of  America !  plenty  is  poured 
For  the  sons  and  the  daughters  that  circle  5"our  board ; 
Think  of  our  children — the  strong  and  the  fair — 
'        With  their  fierce  cries  of  hunger,  cleaving  through  the  cold  air  ! 

And  give  us  bread. 

"  Such  weakness  has  crept  o'er  our  muscles  once  stout, 
That  we  faint  as  we  carry  our  cold  dead  out ; — 
By  our  newly-made  graves  all  hopeless  we  lie — 
Help !  help ! — in  humanity's  name ! — or  we  die ! 

O,  give  us  bread ! 

♦'Farmers  of  America !  your  bounteous  lands 
Give  their  mines  of  wealth  to  your  own  strong  hands ; 
Let  your  souls  be  as  large,  and  your  bounty  as  free ; 
Neither  harvest,  nor  seed  for  the  future,  have  we  ! 

0,  send  us  bread ! 


A    VOICE    O^ER    THE    WATERS.  30S> 

"  Wives  of  America!  from  the  round  Earth 
Cluster  all  blessings  to  gladden  your  hearth  ! — 
Think  of  the  maddened  ones,  bursting  away 
From  our  weak  arms,  ta  the  bloody  affray ! 

And  give  us  bread ! 

"  And  while  0,  Mothers,  your  infants  lie 
At  the  warm  love-fountain  that  never  is  dry. 
Think  of  the  famished  one,  finding  no  rest. 
With  the  lips  of  her  dying  babe  glued  to  her  breast ! 

O,  give  us  bread ! 

"  Sons  of  America !  noble  and  free  ! 

Our  sons  love  freedom  as  dearly  as  ye — 

But  the  high  heart  may  cherish  its  glory  no  more ; 

For  the  vulture  of  Hunger  is  gnawing  its  core ! 

O,  give  U8  brecid  I 

"And  the  blessing  of  millions,  spontaneous,  will  start 
From  the  passionate  depths  of  the  Irish  heart ; 
And  the  death-shadows  brooding  where  dark  graves  ope, 
Shedl  catch  from  your  kind  cheer  the  sunlight  of  hope ! 

0,  give  us  bread ! 

"The  mother,  caressing  her  ransomed  child — 
The  father,  with  eyes  all  so  hideous  and  wild — 
Shall  praise,  and  shall  bless  you,  with  quivering  breath. 
As  they  joyfully  turn  from  the  blackness  of  death ! 

0,  give  us  bread ! 

"  And  the  blessing  of  Heaven  shall  not  linger  in  air. 
But  shall  rest  on  your  broad  lands  and  prairies  fair. 
Till  it  stretches  like  sunshine,  from  mountain  to  sea. 
Entering  with  God's  leave  the  "  Land  of  the  Free." 

0,   GIVJE   us   BRKADt* 


*  Let  this  eloquent  appeal,  tliese  thrilling  sentiments,  pervade  the  heart  of  America,  and' 
become  the  theme  of  exalted  song  in  every  Family  Circle,  and  the  cry  of  suifering  Ireland,, 
will  soon  be  converted  into  the  warm  accents  of  thanksgiving  and  praise.  Et>< 


see 


SALARIES. 


SALARIES  OF  THE  BRITISH  MINISTRY. 

The  annexed  list  will  show  the  singular  contrast  between 
the  salaries  bestowed  upon  the  eminent  men  of  England  and 
those  given  to  the  eminent  men  of  our  country. 
First  Lord  of  the  Treasury, 
Lord  High  Chancellor, 
Lord  President  of  the  Council, 
Lord  Privy  Seal,      .... 
Secretary  of  State,  Home  Department, 
**  "       Foreign,         " 


"  "       Colonial,        " 

Secretary  of  War, 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland, 
Lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland, 
Master  of  the  Rolls, 
Vice  Chancellors,  each. 
Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the  Queen's  Bench, 
Four  Judges  of  the  Queen's  Bench,  each, 
Lord  Chief  Justice  of  Court  of  Common  Pleas, 
Four  Judges  of  Court  of  Common  Pleas,  each, 
Lord  Chief  Baron  of  the  Exchequer, 
Four  Barons  of  the  Exchequer,  each, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 

"  York, 

Bishop  of  London,        *  .  .  . 

"  Lincoln, 

"  Norwich,       .  ,  *  . 

The  Bishop  of  Calcutta, 

The  Bishops  of  Jamaica  and  Barbadoes,  each, 
The  Bishops  of  Bombay,  Madras  and  Quebec,  each,     2,500 

AMERICA. 

President  of  the  United  States  825,000,  equal  to    .     £5,600 
Secretary  of  State,  Treasury,  War  and  Navy,  each, 

86,000,  equal  to       .  .  .  .  1,350 

The  Governor  of  Vermont  8750,  equal  to       .  .170 

The  Governor  of  R.  Island  8400,      "        .  .  90 


£5,000 

14,000 

2,000 

2,000 

5,000 

5,000 

5,000 

2,500 

20,000 

8,000 

7,000 

6,000 

10,000 

5,500 

8,000 

5,500 

7,000 

5,500 

129,946 

223,220 

267,662 

373,976 

331,750 

5,000 

4,000 


LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE.  307 

Original. 

LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE. 

Here  I  am,  my  dear  young  friends,  once  more  at  home — 
in  the  heart — nay,  the  very  soul  of  nature.  I  sh-all  not  tell 
you  where  my  residence  is  located,  but  I  shall  describe  it  to 
you,  together  with  its  "  surroundings,"  as  our  gifted  Miss 
Sedgewick  would  say — a  term  which  I  borrow  for  conve- 
nience' sake,  and  for  which  I  make  all  suitable  acknowledg- 
ment to  her  ladyship.  I  shall,  also,  from  time  to  time,  give 
you  some  accounts  of  scenes  which  transpire  in  my  little 
world — no,  not  little,  either ;  for,  to  him  who  looks  into  the 
spirit  of  things,  nothing  is  small.  There  is  a  world  of  thought 
even  in  a  nut-shell.  There  is  wisdom  and  beauty  and  love, 
in  the  simplest  blade  of  grass — in  the  humblest  weed  that 
grows.  I  have,  then,  inexhaustible  subjects  of  research  and 
study — infinite  sources  of  happiness — within  the  compass  of 
my  daily  walks — nay,  within  the  wooden  walls  where  I  have 
made  my  home,  as  you  shall  presently  see.  I  have  birds, 
quadrupeds,  insects,  reptiles,  fishes.  There  are  plants,  min- 
erals, caves,  grottoes  and  woods.  Near  at  hand  is  the  ocean 
in  the  fulness  of  its  beauty,  its  majesty,  and  its  strength ; 
and,  bending  over  all,  is  the  great  sky,  with  the  glory  of  its 
daily  sunlight,  and  the  poetry  of  its  midnight  stars,  which, 
to  the  believing  ear,  yet  sing  their  songs  of  beauty  and  of 
harmony — yet  make  all  space  musical  with  their  hymns  of 
joy  and  love. 

Pleasant  then,  will  be  our  intercourse,  even  though  it 
must  be  carried  on  through  this  constrained  medium ;  for 
the  things  that  interest  me  most  shall  all  be  laid  before  you 
— ^not,  indeed,  as  if  seen  with  your  own  eyes,  in  all  the  in- 
teresting philosophy  of  their  natural  relations  ;  but  with 
such  light  as  may  be  transmitted  from  the  mind  of  another. 

I  will  now  commence  a  description  of  my  residence.  I 
dare  say  your  city  friends  will  be  surprised  that  I  have  gone 


308  LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE. 

into  such  quarters  at  this  season  of  the  year  ;  and  very  like 
you,  too,  may  wonder  at  my  choice.  But  the  truth  is;  I 
have  chosen  my  position  with  a  view  of  studying,  at  my 
leisure,  some  of  the  more  delicate  and  less  known  phenomena, 
which  are  developed  only'in  the  winter,  and  which  from  my 
nearer  proximity,  and  closer  acquaintance,  I  shall  be  able  to 
do — such  as  the  motion  of  the  sap,  the  swelling  of  buds,  the 
flowering  of  mosses,  and  the  winter  habits  of  quadrupeds, 
and  such  birds  as  may  remain  with  us. 

My  house  was  not  wrought  by  human  hands,  but  was 
constructed  by  the  great  Builder  of  the  Universe — It  is 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  Hollow  Tree — as  the  date  of 
my  letter  has,  before  this,  intimated. 

I  dare  say  when  you  read  the  above  sentence,  you  will 
have  the  sensation  of  being  cramped  for  want  of  room  ;  but, 
when  you  come  to  the  particulars,  this  feeling  will  be  re- 
lieved. The  tree  that,  for  the  present,  makes  my  house,  is  of 
the  species  known  by  Botanists  as  the  Platanus  Occidentalis, 
and,  in  more  common  tevms,  as  the  great  Plane,  or  Button- 
wood  of  America ;  it  is  sometimes,  also,  but  improperly, 
called  the  Sycamore.  This  tree,  as  you  have  doubtless 
found  by  your  reading,  sometimes  grows  to  an  immense 
size  ;  and  is  frequently,  when  from  great  age  it  has  become 
hollow,  occupied  as  a  human  habitation.  The  hunter  of  the 
West  often  finds  his  lodging  in  its  capacious  trunk  ;  and  so 
do  whole  families  of  Indians,  and  sometimes,  also,  western, 
emigrants.  The  one  where  your  uncle  abides,  is  sixteen 
feet  in  diameter,  at  ten  feet  from  the  ground — and  forty-eight 
feet  in  circumference  at  the  same  height.  I  said  that  my 
house  was  not  built  by  human  hands.  This  is  strictly  true 
of  the  external  walls.  I  have  merely  added  floorings,  par- 
titions and  windows,  in  order  to  ensure  the  greater  conveni- 
ence, which  man,  and  especially  enlightened  and  studious 
man  requires. 

Let  me  now,  my  wondering  friends,  though  at  this  dis- 
tance, enact  the  courtesy  of  a  host,  and  show  you  over  my 
house,  and  display  to  your  wondering  eyes  all  its  convenien- 


LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE.  309 

ces — all  its  treasures.  We  will  begin  with  its  location,  or 
site.  It  stands  in  the  heart  of  a  deep  and  ancient  forest,  oc- 
cupying the  highest  point  of  land  lor  miles  around.  The 
foundations  are  deeply  laid  in  the  heart  of  earth,  being  pro- 
tected and  secured,  by  immense  ledges  of  granite,  which 
extend  a  great  distance,  embosoming  caverns  and  grottoes, 
of  which  I  shall  have  to  tell  you  some  other  time.  Now  my 
business  is  above  ground — so  here  you  enter  the  rooms  of 
your  well-beloved  Uncle. 

This  is  done  by  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  of  irregular  struc- 
ture, and  wreathed  by  profuse  branches  of  the  Celastrus 
and  grape  vine,  which  have  trained  themselves  over  two 
short  horizontal  branches,  as  if  on  purpose  to  form  my  por- 
tico— and  a  right  pleasant  one  it  is.  Underneath  this  natural 
bower  I  have  constructed  my  door  way,  by  removing  an 
oblong  square  from  the  tree,  and  supplying  hinges  and  a 
latch.  This  opens  into  the  hall,  which  is  four  feet  in  diam- 
eter. In  this  apartment,  and  opposite  the  door,  I  have  con- 
structed my  summer  and  fine-weather  sofa,  by  raising  the 
earth  to  a  suitable  height,  and  covering  it  with  beautiful 
lichens  and  mosses  of  different  colors,  arranged  in  figures  to 
suit  my  own  taste  ;  and  which  please  me  infinitely  better 
than  the  finest  embroidery  of  the  most  fashionable  divans 
and  ottomans ;  for  my  embroidery  has  a  self-renewing 
{Jbwer,  and  is  freshened  by  continual  life  and  growth.  This 
point  commands  a  view  of  a  lovely  opening  in  the  wood — a 
path  of  light-sweeping  through  the  green  bowers  of  the  leafy 
colonnade,  as  if  the  angels  of  peace  and  love  had  opened  it 
for  their  daily  and  nightly  visits,  by  the  soft  sweep  of  their 
majestic  wings.  From  the  hall  we  pass  into  my  reception 
room,  which  occupies  the  remainder  of  the  ground  floor. 
This  room  is  carpeted  with  the  same  material  that  drapes 
my  sofas ;  and,  to  my  eye,  exceeds  in  delicacy  and  beauty, 
the  finest  product  of  the  looms  of  Brussels,  or  Turkey.  A 
broad  sofa,  or  couch,  surrounds  the  outer  side  of  the  apart- 
ment, which  is  circular,  corresponding  with  the  shape  of  the 
tree.     This  form  embodies,  as  you  may  see,  the  immortal 


310  LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE. 

Hogarth's  "  line  of  grace  and  beauty ;"  and  is  far  more 
agreeable  than  the  right  lines  and  angles,  which  prevail  in 
the  modern  dwellings  of  man.  Perhaps  I  had  better  tell  you 
here  that  Hogarth  was  a  celebrated  English  painter,  who 
discovered  that  all  forms  and  motions  of  grace  and  beauty, 
are  expressed  in  curved  lines,  in  contradistinction  to  straight 
or  right  lines,  with  their  angles.  This  is  seen  in  the  curling 
motion  of  smoke,  of  mist,  or  of  flame ;  in  the  waving  of  corn, 
of  grass,  or  the  limbs  of  trees ;  in  the  flight  of  birds,  and  in 
the  outline  of  almost  all  animated  forms.  The  ancients  had 
an  idea  of  this,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  numerous  arches 
which  prevail  in  their  works,  and  from  which  the  word 
architecture  is  derived. 

But,  to  return  to  the  reception  room — you  will  wonder,  1 
suppose,  what  company  I  receive ;  but  I  shall  introduce  you 
to  my  guests,  bye  and  bye  ;  and,  I  assure  you,  they  are  very 
numerous,  and  very  interesting.  This  room  is  lighted  by  a 
single  window.  The  panes  of  this  are  composed  of  plates 
of  very  clear  and  beautiful  mica,  which  abounds  in  this  re- 
gion ;  and  which  admits  a  soft  and  lovely  light.  You  may 
know  that  mica  is  a  transparent,  or  rathSr  a  translucent 
mineral,  which  is  easily  separable  into  thin  layers,  and  is  the 
same  that  is  used  to  insert  in  stoves  for  your  parlor  fires ; 
and  through  which  you  may  have  a  cheerful  view  of  the 
glowing  anthracite.  Mica  is  one  of  the  component  princi- 
ples of  granite,  in  some  varieties  of  which  it  lai'gely  predom- 
inates. You  may  know  it  by  its  sparkling  lustre,  like  small 
and  thin  fragments  of  glass,  and  by  its  softness — as  it  easily 
yields  to  the  nail,  and  may  be  pressed  or  crushed  in  the  fin- 
gers to  powder. 

In  this  apartment  I  have  every  thing  that  can  ensure  com- 
fort, both  for  Summer  and  Winter.  I  should  not  forget  to 
say  that  it  contains  two  cabinets,  one  filled  with  some  choice 
specimens  of  minerals,  shells  and  dried  plants,  the  other 
with  rare  books.  From  this  apartment  a  flight  of  steps  as  • 
cends  to  the  second  floor,  which  contains  two  sleeping  roon  s 
—one  of  which  I  occupy ;  and  the  other  is  for  an  occasional 


A    MIBACLE    OF    MESCY.  311 

guest.  These  rooms  are  lighted  and  carpeted  Uke  that 
below ;  and  contains  various  articles  of  comfort,  mostly  of 
my  own  manufacture.  From  this  a  flight  of  steps  leads  to 
the  third  floor — and  here,  upon  the  threshold,  I  must  make 
my  bow,  and  take  my  leave  for  the  present ;  and  if  our 
good  friend  concludes  to  print  this  in  his  beautiful  Magazine, 
you  may  soon  again  hear  from  your  somewhat  odd,  but 
afiectionate 

OLD    UNCLE    NAT. 


A    MIRACLE   OF    MERCY. 

THE    SPENT   BULLET. 

BY      THE      EDITOR. 

Much  has  been  written  about  the  strength  of  maternal  af- 
fection, and  probably  no  principle  is  more  deeply  seated,  or 
more  powerfully  influential.  Under  the  control  of  religion 
this  principle  derives  additional  strength  and  efficiency. 
Who  can  fathom  the  depth  of  a  pious  mother's  solicitude  for 
a  dissipated,  reckless  son !  When  all  other  means  of  re- 
clamation have  failed,  and  ruin  seems  inevitable,  she  sits  not 
down  in  despair,  but  busily  occupies  herself  in  devising  new 
methods  to  arrest  the  footsteps  of  the  wanderer,  and  over- 
come the  obduracy  of  the  heart;  and  Providence  concurring, 
wonders  of  mercy  have  often  been  wrought.  We  have  an 
affecting  illustration  of  this,  in  the  following  striking  story  re- 
lated by  Admiral  Penn  to  his  son  WilUam,  the  father  and 
founder  of  the  State  of  Pennsylvania. 

"  On  board  of  the  Admiral's  ship  was  a  young  officer  of 
the  name  of  Fenton,  the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  a 
widow.  Fenton  was  giddy  and  dissipated  in  a  high  degree, 
which  cost  his  mother  many  a  tear.  One  day,  as  drowned 
in  sorrow,  she  took  leave  of  him  going  on  ship-board  to  fight 
the  enemy,  she  repeated  all  her  former  good  advice,  giving 
him,  at  the  same  time,  a  beautiful  little  Bible,  which  she  put 


I 


312  A    MIRACLE    OF    MERCY. 

into  a  side  pocket  made  by  her  own  hands,  over  his ,  left 
breast.  The  two  fleets  met,  and  a  most  bloody  conflict  en- 
sued. The  ships  grappled  each  other ;  and  the  eager  crews, 
quitting  their  cannon,  fought  hand  to  hand,  with  pistols  and 
cutlasses,  as  on  dry  ground.  In  the  mortal  fray,  the  decks 
all  covered  with  the  dying  and  the  dead,  Fenton  was  attack- 
ed by  a  stout  Dutchman,  who,  presenting  his  pistol  to  his 
heart,  drew  the  trigger.  The  ball  struck.  Feeling  the 
shock,  Fenton  concluded  he  was  mortally  wounded,  but 
being  naturally  brave,  he  continued  to  fight  on  with  great 
fury,  though  not  without  secretly  wondering  that  he  did  not 
fall.  On  the  ceasing  of  the  battle,  which  terminated  in  favor 
•of  the  British,  he  began  to  search  for  his  wound.  But  not  a 
scratch  could  he  find,  nor  even  a  drop  of  blood.  This,  no 
doubt,  was  great  good  news  to  him  who  had  given  himself 
up  for  dead.  He  then  thought  of  his  Bible,  and  drawing  it 
from  his  side  pocket,  found  it  miserably  torn  by  the  ball, 
which,  but  for  that  strange  stop,  would  have  been  buried  in 
his  heart.  The  thoughts  of  Heaven  and  of  his  mother  rushed 
on  his  mind.  And,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  fell  on  his 
knees  and  adored  a  God.  Carefully  opening  his  Bible,  he 
found  that  the  ball,  after  penetrating  one  half  of  the  sacred 
volume,  had  stopped  exactly  at  that  famous  verse — "Rejoice, 
O  young  man,  in  thy  youth,  and  let  thy  heart  cheer  thee  in 
the  days  of  thy  youth  ;  and  walk  in  the  ways  of  thy  heart 
and  in  the  sight  of  thine  eyes ;  but  know  thou,  that  for  all 
these  things  God  shall  bring  thee  into  judgment !"  Fenton 
was  so  struck  with  this,  as  a  call  from  Heaven,  that  he  im- 
mediately altered  his  life ;  and  from  a  worthless  reprobate 
became  a  Good  Christian." 

Touched  as  it  were  by  the  finger  of  God,  the  reader  in- 
voluntarily exclaims,  What  a  miracle  of  mercy  is  this  I  No- 
ble reward  of  maternal  faithfulness  !  Touching  exhibition  of 
divine  mercy  !  The  mother  6f  Fenton  probably  placed  the 
beautiful  little  Bible  over  his  left  breast,  not  with  a  view  to 
the  protection  of  his  life,  but  to  impress  him  deeply  with  an 
abiding  sense  of  the  solicitude  she  felt  for  his  salvation ;  of 


MAGNOLIA   AND    IXiA    FLEXUOSA- 


A    MIRACLE    OF    MERCY.  313 

her  warm  desire  that  the  word  of  God  might  be  engrafted 
upon  his  heart.  But  a  merciful  God  designed  it  as  the  means 
not  only  of  preserving  his  natural  life,  but  that  which  was 
infinitely  more  important,  of  imparting  spiritual  life.  But 
for  the  Bible  the  ball  had  been  buried  in  his  heart ;  and,  in 
all  probability,  had  not  the  deadly  missile  spent  itself  exactly 
at  that  alarming  passage,  "  Rejoice,  O  young  man,"  etc.,  he 
had  never  been  awakened  and  converted. 

But  such  miracles  of  mercy  are.  rare,  and  none  who  are 
sweeping  the  rounds  of  folly,  may  look  for  such  extraordi- 
nary interpositions  of  Providence,  while  they  possess  the 
word  of  God  which  is  able  to  make  them  wise  unto  salvation. 
Young  man,  the  Bible  is  your  only  security,  whether  you 
believe  it  or  not.  A  pious  mother  may  not  have  lodged  it 
in  your  bosom,  but  God  has  placed  it  in  your  path- way  to 
ruin.  You  cannot  neglect  its  warning  and  invitations  but 
at  the  peril  of  your  soul.  Be  entreated  to  receive  this 
blessed  record  into  your  heart,  and  nothing  in  the  Universe 
will  harm  you. 


A   GOOD   CHARACTER. 

A  GOOD  character  is  to  a  young  man,  what  a  firm  founda- 
,  lion  is  to  the  artist  who  proposes  to  erect  a  building  on  it ; 
n  ■  he  can  build  with  safety,  and  all  who  behold  it  will  have 
11  confidence  in  its  solidity,  a  helping  hand  will  never  be 
■^-wanted — but  let  a  single  part  of  this  be  defective,  and  you 
I^Brun  a  hazard,  amidst  doubting  and  distrust,  and  ten  to  one  it 
iPVill  tumble  down  at  last,  and  mingle  all  that  was  built  on  it 
in  ruin.  Without  a  good  character  poverty  is  a  curse — 
with  it,  it  is  scarcely  an  evil.  Happiness  cannot  exist  where 
a  good  character  is  not. 


314  THE    EVENING    WALK. 


Original 


THE    EVENING   WALK. 

BY    MISS    E.    A.    COMSTOCK,    N.  Y. 
With  a  Steel  Engraving. 

The  sun  was  flinging  a  broad  mantle  of  radiance  over 
the  valley  of  Glencoe,  gilding  the  old  church  tower,  and 
warning  the  laborer  that  though  his  beams  were  bright 
they  were  his  last  and  soon  to  fade  into  evening  twi- 
light. The  ivy  quivered  in  the  cheering  rays,  reflecting 
from  leaf  to  leaf  a  continuous  line  of  dazzling  light.  The 
heavily  ladened  ant  hurried  homeward  \%dth  his  load,  pick- 
ing his  way  carefully  along  the  well-trodden  path  that  ter- 
minated at  the  church  porch,  and  which  on  the  ensuing  day 
would  be  an  unsafe  place  for  him.  The  old  sexton  who  had 
presided  for  forty  years  over  the  pews  of  the  church  until 
it  had  become  to  him  even  as  a  dear  child,  wended  his  way 
to  it,  swinging  his  hea\"}'  bunch  of  keys  and  stopping  now 
and  then  to  enjoy  the  cooling  breeze,  or  to  point  out  to  his 
aged  wife  some  spot,  so  altered  from  what  it  was  when 
they  were  young,while  his  youthful  son  listened  with  pleas- 
ed attention  to  the  reminiscences  of  his  grey-haired  sire. 
There  was  a  stillness  and  serenity  resting  on  all  around 
that  invited  the  soul  to  reflection  and  devotion.  Nature 
seemed  preparing  for  the  coming  of  that  dear  and  holy  day 
so  welcome  to  the  christian's  heart. 

Anna  Lester  yielded  to  the  influence  of  the  peaceful 
scene,  and  aflfectionately  kissing  the  wrinkled  brow  of  her 
decrepid  parent,  strolled  out  to  the  beechen  grove  that  sha- 
ded the  graves  of  so  many  of  her  kindred,  and  would  so 
soon  receive  her  sole  remaining  relative.  Wild  flowers 
bloomed  here  in  great  profusion,  and  Anna  stooped  to  pluck 


THE    EVENING    WALK.  315 

a  bouquet  for  her  father,  who  could  wander  no  more  amid 
their  beauties,  when  the  note  of  a  lark  caused  her  to  start 
from  her  labor,  and  listen  like  one  entranced.  The  hap- 
py songster  had  alighted  upon  a  branch  immediately  above 
her  head  and  seemed  to  be  pouring  out  half  his  little  soul 
in  his  gushing  song.  With  hand  half  raised  and  head  bent 
in  the  act  of  listening,  Anna  stood  beneath  the  whispering 
foliage  with  a  heart  elevated  and  softened  by  this  finishing 
touch  to  what  seemed  before  completely  beautiful.  "  Ah  ! 
she  exclaimed,  I  could  almost  imagine  it  the  soul  of  my  in- 
fant brother,  calling  me  in  a  hymn  of  praise  to  Heaven." 

Her  thoughts  reverted  to  the  time  when  mother  and  bro- 
ther welcomed  with  smiles  her  return  from  those  evening 
rambles  where  she  held  communion  with  Him  who,  for  her 
own  good,  had  often  chastened  her  naturally  proud  and  lof- 
ty heart.  These  cherished  ones  had  passed  away,  and  now 
when  the  falling  dew  warned  her  to  hasten  home,  her  fa- 
ther alone,  blessed  the  thoughtful  child  who  returned  to 
him,  laden  with  the  floral  teachers  he  loved  so  well.  These 
saddening  musings  however  faded  away  before  the  joyous 
song  of  the  lark.  Hope  weaved  a  garland  for  the  future, 
and  came  to  her  side  wdth  a  promise  of  coming  joy.  In  all 
of  her  pleasing  visions  the  image  of  her  father  was  the  nu- 
cleus around  which  they  expanded  and  brightened.  He  sat 
in  the  windows  of  her  castles  in  the  air,  smiling  upon  her 
as  she  hurried  to  his  side.  What  brilliant  bouquets  she 
twined  for  him  in  these  reveries !  What  healing  and 
strength  she  gave  to  his  feeble  limbs  !  "Oh,  he  will  live 
long,  thought  she,  and  will  once  more  enjoy  with  me  a  Sa- 
turday evening  in  this  grove  he  planted  in  his  j'^outh.  Per- 
haps this  bird  will  sing  for  him  the  song  that  has  thrilled 
my  heart."  As  this  sanguine  thought  illuminated  her 
countenance,  the  bird  flew  away  and  the  church  bell's  mel- 
ancholy chime,  seemed  chanting  the  funeral  dirge  of  the 
sun  vi^ho  had  sunk  behind  a  vast  pile  of  clouds  rapidly  ri- 
sing behind  the  church  tower.  Anna  soon  gathered  a  nose- 
gay from  the  plentiful  groups  of  flowers  that  gemmed  the 


316  THE    EVENING    WALK. 

rank  sod,  and  walked  slowly  home,  repeating  to  herself 
Thompson's  beautiful  Hymn  of  the  Seasons.  As  she  open- 
ed the  wicket  gate  of  her  garden,  the  house-keeper  came 
to  the  porch  with  a  face  of  alarm,  and  hurried  her  into  the 
sitting  room,  where  two  of  the  neighbors  were  busily  enga- 
ged around  her  father,  whose  half  closed,  sunken  eyes  and 
livid  face  were  shaded  by  the  wings  of  the  angel  of  Death, 
who  was  now  hovering  over  him.  Anna  sprung  forward, 
and  clasped  the  cold  hand  that  was  extended  to  her.  A 
faint  smile  passed  over  his  face  as  his  eyes  rested  a  mo- 
ment on  the  bunch  of  flowers  she  held  in  her  hand.  "  Oh, 
my  father,  said  Anna,  do  not  leave  me  alone."  The  inval- 
id raised  his  shrivelled  hand  to  Heaven  and  whispered  soft- 
ly, "  He  will  be  with  thee  my  child  !"  Anna  bowed  her  head 
and  wept,  but  in  that  weakness  of  the  human  heart  there 
was  the  strength  of  resignation.  Although  her  tears  fell 
like  rain,  her  spirit  cried,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

The  evening  breeze  came  into  the  chamber  of  death,  la- 
den with  the  perfume  of  fragrant  shrubs,  but  they  passed 
unheeded  by  its  lifeless  inmate  who  was  resting  there  in 
pulseless  sleep  ! 

Again  the  sim  shown  brightly,  the  trees  danced  and  fro- 
licked above  the  tomb  of  the  Lesters.  The  flowers  raised 
their  many  tinted  heads  as  smilingly  as  though  no  tears 
had  watered  their  roots.  At  the  base  of  a  moss  covered 
monument  sat  Anna  Lester  near  to  the  tree  on  whose  Ioav 
branch  the  lark  had  so  lately  sung.  There  slept  all  of  her 
race.  That  monument  had  just  closed  over  the  last  link 
that  bound  her  to  life.  Here  had  she  reared  an  airy  fab- 
ric of  bliss  which  now  lay  in  ruins  at  her  feet.  "It  is 
over,  murmured  she,  my  selfish  repinings  have  ceased. 
Mine  was  the  fate  of  all  earth's  dreamers.  I  built  my 
house  upon  the  sand  and  it  fell.  Henceforth  the  Rock  of 
ages  shall  be  its  foundation.  I  shall  never  fear.  Why  did 
I  wish  to  keep  him  from  the  celestial  harmony  that  in  half 
heard  fragments  reached  him  here  1  Alone  !  no,  God  and 
his  afflicted  ones  are  with  me.     I  will  arise  and  comfort 


THE    EVENING    WALK.  317 

the  broken-hearted.  The  poor  and  oppressed  shall  be  my 
kindred.  I  have  been  an  idler  in  God's  vineyard,  hence- 
forth I  will  toil  without  ceasing.  How  many  sorrowing 
ones  have  need  of  me.  How  many  happy  hearts  may  be 
made,  still  happier  by  my  sympathy.  Sweet  flowers,  and 
graceful  trees,  you  speak  intelligibly  to  me.  You  have  not 
ministered  in  vain  to  my  crushed  spirit." 

Years  rolled  away  and  pestilence  stalked  in  the  streets 
of  a  neighboring  city.  The  death  struck  called  in  vain  on 
his  terrified  kindred,  and  died  alone.  No  hand  was  near 
to  hold  a  cup  of  cold  water  to  his  parched  lips  or  to  cool 
his  dry  and  burning  brow.  Selfishness  reigned  in  all  but 
a  few  hearts.  Left  alone  to  struggle  with  the  destroyer  in 
his  new  and  most  terrific  form,  the  dying  solitary  was  too 
sensible  of  the  desertion  of  those  whom '  his  heart  had  so 
long  held  dear.  In  his  deepest  despair  and  wretchedness, 
what  female  form  bends  over  him,  and  soothes  his  parting 
throes  ?  What  ministering  angel  is  it  that  thus  glides 
around  him  gently  and  unappalled  ?  She  is  a  stranger  to 
HIM,  but  not  to  us.  In  that  attenuated  form  and  cheer- 
ful face,  w^e  recognise  one  well  known  in  the  haunts  of 
poverty  and  disease.  One  who  sat  by  the  tomb  of  her 
forefathers  and  dedicated  herself  to  this  work.  Who  went 
forth  alone  to  suffer  and  patiently  endure.  Who  built  in 
her  youth  her  hopes  on  the  rock  of  ages,  when  her  airy  fa- 
bric of  sandy  foundation  lay  in  ruins  at  her  feet.  Living 
for  the  realities  of  life,  she  finds  them  more  true  and  beau- 
tiful than  the  gorgeous  visions  that  deluded  her  on  the 
brink  of  sorrow,  during  her  Saturday  evening  walk. 

Gentle  Reader,  perchance  you  may  drop  a  tear,  as  you 
reflect  on  the  singular  bereavement  of  this  lone  one. 

Ah,  give  me  her  resignation,  her  fitness  for  the  sorrows 
of  life,  and  her  hopes  of  Heaven,  rather  than  the  mere 
gold  or  gems  of  the  East,  or  the  splendors  of  this  transito- 
ry world  J 


318  FAMILY    DISTINCTIONS. 

Original. 

FAMILY    DISTINCTIONS.  J 

A    DIALOGUE. 

BY      MRS.      9.      B.      ROBERTS. 

**  Ellen  will  yoa  attend  the  party  to-night  ?"  asked  Lucy^ 
as  she  threw  herself  leisurely  upon  the  sofa,  better  to  enjoy 
her  morning  call. 

"  No  Lucy,  I  wish  to  be  present  at  Ihe  wedding  to-morrow 
evening ;  and  Ma  does  not  think  it  prudent  for  me  to  be  out 
several  evenings  in  succession." 

"  So  the  talented-  Clarence  is  really  about  to  marry  that 
inanimate  sewing,  girl ;  I  cannot  conceive  what  phenomena 
will  next  occur." 

"  Indeed  Lucy,  you  surprise  me  !  I  have  ever  rejoiced  in 
their  anticipated  union;  and  you  call  her  inanimate,  her  con- 
tinued cheerfulness,  even  amid  the  many  perplexities  of  her 
business,  has  always  been  a  reproof  to  my  impatient  disposi- 
tion— and  many  an  important  lesson  of  persevering  effort 
have  I  learned  from  her." 

'•  Do  not  think  me  ridiculing  your  remarks,"  said  Lucy 
laughing,  "  I  was  thinking  what  a  figure  she  would  make  as 

Mrs.  M at  some  of  our  fashionable  parties.     I  dare  say 

she  never  took  a  gentleman's  arm  before  his,  and  cannot  be 
very  graceful  in  the  waltz,  or  at  the  piam>forte  ;  I  presume 
she  could  not  tell  when  the  instrument  was  in  tune." 

"  I  do  not  know  as  to  that,  but  she  has  a  voice  soft  and 
sweet  as  an  ajolian  harp,  and  although  she  has  not  been 
accustomed  to  move  in  the  most  fashionable  circles,  and  con- 
sequently has  not  learned  to  practice  coquetry,  and  those 
airs  which  are  the  folly  and  shame  of  our  sex  at  the  present 
day,  yet  her  manners  are  highly  refined,  her  conversation 
spirited  and  intelligent,  and  she  possesses  all  that  dignity  of 
character,  which  renders  her  an  engaging  young  lady." 


FAMILY    DISTINCTIONS.  319 

**  Well  I  suppose  the  girl  is  well  enough,  but  her  family 
are  people  of  no  distinction.  Pa  says  he  should  think  Clar- 
ences' friends  would  feel  mortified  at  his  choice  ;  they  will 

now  be  obliged  to  be  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  the  R s, 

which  you  know  will  be  very  humiliating  to  people  of  their 
wealth  and  standing  in  society  ;  besides,  should  he  not  suc- 
ceed in  his  profession,  she  has  no  friends  to  sustain  her." 

"  That  may  be  true,  for  her  family  connections  are  not 
extensive,  but  in  my  opinion  he  is  not  a  very  promising 
young  man  who  cannot  build  up  and  sustain  a  reputation  for 
himself;  if  he  has  no  merit  upon  which  to  rely,  he  had  bet- 
ter fall,  and  occupy  his  proper  place  in  society.  But  I  think 
the  M s  are  not  tenacious  upon  that  point,  they  are  peo- 
ple of  sterling  worth,  and  I  presume  would  rather  Clarence 
should  marry  the  amiable  though  humble  Eliza,  than  all  the 
high  sounding  titles  and  family  distinctions  in  the  world." 

"  But  you  seem  to  think  he  will  not  be  affected  by  her 
family,  how  do  you  suppose  he  would  feel,  if  in  some  of  their 
walks  as  the  newly  married  pair,  they  should  meet  her  ine- 
briate father,  sauntering  through  the  streets  ?" 

♦*  I  suppose  he  would  instantly  perceive  that  it  was  not 
the  daughter,"  rejoined  Ellen  with  a  tone  of  mingled  ridicule 
and  contempt,  "  and  if  he  is  the  noble  character  he  should 
be,  and  which  I  think  he  is,  he  would  rejoice  that  it  was  in 
his  power  to  assuage  in  a  measure  the  grief  occasioned  by 
such  a  spectacle." 

"  Ellen  you  remind  me  of '  Love  in  the  cottage.'  '  Love 
in  the  cottage,'  or  hovel  as  you  please  to  call  it ;  I  contend 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  pure  affection  without  real  or 
supposed  merit,  and  there  is  often  as  much  merit  found 
under  the  thatched  roof  as  in  kingly  courts ;  and  the  idea  of 
marrying  family  distinctions  has  caused  many  an  unhappy 
union,  which  sighs  and  tears  in  secret  could  not  dissolve." 

"  But  as  to  Eliza's  father,  he  was  once  prosperous  and 
respected,  educated  his  children,  and  ruled  his  house  with 
dignity ;  but  a  few  years  ago  when  the  decanter  must  adorn 
every  man's  sideboard,  he  formed  a  habit  which  all  his  good 


320  NO    LICENSE. 

resolutions  are.  inadequate  to  break  up,  so  long  as  the  temp- 
tation is  presented  in  its  most  inviting  form,  in  whatever  way 
he  may  turn;  and  now  instead  of  letting  the  blame  fall 
where  it  should,  upon  those,  who,  contrary  to  every  feeling 
of  humanity  and  our  most  wholesome  laws,  are  doing  their 
neighbor  such  incalculable  wrong,  you  heap  reproach  upon 
the  innocent  and  defenceless,  and  while  you  cry  family  dis- 
tinctions, you  seem  not  to  perceive  that  you  rob  the  youth 
of  that  which  it  should  ever  be  their  highest  ambition  to 
obtain,  a  standing  founded  upon  worth  alone. 


Original. 

NO    LICENSE. 

BY      MISS      MARY      COX. 

Jane. — Well  Sarah,  don't  you  think  we  have  great  reason 
to  rejoice  that  most  of  the  towns  in  our  state,  have  gone  in 
favor  of  no  license  ? 

Sarah. — Yes  Jane,  but  it  makes  me  feel  sad  when  1  think 
how  many  have  perished  already — had  this  reform  com- 
menced thirty  years  ago,  how  much  misery  might  have  been 
prevented  ;  I  might  have  been  spared  the  grief  that  falls  to 
the  orphan's  lot — spared  also  the  bitterness  of  weeping  over 
the  graves  of  a  father  and  brother,  whose  lives  were  wretch- 
ed, and  whose  death  was  in  consequence  of  the  intoxicating 
cup. 

J. — ^Dear,  dear  Sarah,  indeed  I  do  feel  for  you  very  much, 
I  did  not  think  of  bringing  up  sad  memories,  when  I  spoke 
of  our  temperance  victory. 

S. — Nor  do  I  think  you  did,  but  the  past  can  never  be 
forgotten,  the  misery  I  have  endured  can  never  be  oblitera- 
ted from  my  mind  ;  my  heart  so  often  torn  can  never  be 
healed, — the  recollection  of  a  mother's  griefs  haunt  me  in 
my  nightly  visions — deprived  of  my  natural  protectors — an 


NO    LICENSE.  321 

orphan — whose  friends  are  friends  fiy)m  pity.     O  have  I  not 
reason  to  weep,  and  wish  the  past  a  dream. 

J. — Do  you  think  Sarah  that  I  thus  love  you — No,  er^  I 
knew  your  misfortune,  I  loved  you  for  yourself  alone,  your 
virtues  endeared  you  to  my  heart,  and  since  I  have  known 
the  story  of  your  griefs,  think  you  I  love  you  less  ?  far  from 

it — do  you  remember  Mrs.  Brown  of  A ,  the  lawyer's 

wife. 

S. — Yes  Jane,  well  do  I  remember  how  she  died,  as  the 
fool  dieth,  as  my  father  died,  as  my  brother  died. 

J. — As  my  mother  died — Oh  Sarah,  I  thought  to  lock  this 
secret  in  my  breast — and  while  here  at  school,  enjoy  a  rep- 
utation, not  mine  if  known,  but  you  have  won  my  heart — 
your  sorrows,  my  sympathy.  Mrs.  Brown  was  my  mother, 
now  think  you  I  know  how  to  feel  for  the  drunkard's  daugh- 
ter? 

S. — Alas !  but  too  well,  but  why  then  do  you  wonder  that 
I  am  unhappy  ? 

J. — I  do  not — and  I  should  be  quite  wretched  if  I  would ; 
weeping  over  the  past,  will  not  wash  away  the  past — so  I 
have  long  been  trying  to  exert  my  influence  in  the  cause  of 
temperance,  I  touch  not — taste  not — handle  not — I  endeavor 
to  enlist  the  youth  about  me  to  do  the  same,  but  little  could 
I  accomplish,  while  license  was  given  to  sell,  now  we  will 
work  together,  we  will  try  to  make  others  happy — and  this 
will  be  reflected  back  into  our  own  hearts.  Let  me  dry 
your  tears  dear  Sarah,  let  us  together  hold  a  jubilee  over 
this  law  of  humanity — rejoice  that  rumsellers  can  now  have 
no  license  to  sell — no  license  ! 

Remarks. — The  touching  dialogue  of  these  amiable  heart- 
stricken  girls,  will  find  an  answering  sympathetic  chord  in 
many  a  broken,  crushed  heart.  It  is  melancholy  that  such 
sorrows  should  be  permitted  to  invade  the  young  heart. 
Who  can  hear  them  bitterly  deplore  the  evils  which  have 
made  home  desolate,  without  rejoicing  to  see  the  arm  of  the 
law  raised  to  protect  the  innocent  and  defenceless. 

Ed. 


322  DID    JESUS    THUS    SUFFER. 

Original. 

"DID  JESUS  THUS  SUFFER,  AND  SHALL  I 
REPINE  ?" 

BY    REV.    S.    IREN^US    PRIME. 

The  Mexican  Emperor  Gautemozin  was  stretched  on  the 
rack,  by  the  soldiers  of  Cortez.  His  joints  cracked  under 
the  torture,  and  the  sweat,  as  of  death,  stood  like  drops  of 
blood  on  his  imperial  brow. 

By  the  side  of  him  lay  one  of  his  nobles,  also  extended 
by  the  arms  and  feet,  and  groaning  piteously  ;  he  complained 
to  his  sovereign  of  the  anguish  he  endured. 

"Do   YOU   think"  said   Gautemozin,  "that   i   lie   upon 

ROSES?" 

The  nobleman,  touched  by  the  thought  that  his  master 
was  as  great  a  sufferer  as  himself,  restrained  his  complaints 
and  expired  in  silence. 

This  striking  incident  has  been  used  to  teach  the  duty  of 
Christians  in  the  midst  of  sickness  and  pain,  when  the  dis- 
tress is  severest  and  threatens  to  drink  up  the  soul,  to  bear 
in  mind  that  the  Master  suffered  more  than  they,  and  a  word 
of  murmuring  never  fell  from  his  hallowed  lips. 

But  there  is  one  strong  point  in  which  the  touching  fact 
from  Mexican  history,  fails  to  present  a  parallel  to  the  Chris- 
tian's pattern  of  patient  endurance  of  pain.  The  tortured 
emperor  was  not  suffering  for  the  nobleman,  who  drew 
strength  from  his  example.     But  Christ  died  for  us. 

This  is  the  thought  for  the  Christian  to  keep  in  mind,  and 
it  is  this  thought  which  martyrs  have  borne  in  mind,  when 
glow  fires  consumed  their  flesh  and  bones,  and  it  has  given 
them  joy  in  anguish,  of  which  the  world  knows  not. 

A  pious  lady  of  my  acquaintance,  subject  to  frequent 
attacks  of  a  most  severe  and  tormenting  disease,  whose 
every  return  threatens  to  divide  the  body  and  the  soul,  has 


DID    JESUS    THUS    SUFFER.  323 

told  me  that  in  the  paroxisms  of  her  distress,  when  nature 
faints  and  sinks,  and  friends  around  her  think  she  cannot 
survive  another  pang,  then  she  looks  away  to  Gethsemane, 
and  sees  the  Son  of  God,  stretched  on  the  ground  in  prayer ; 
she  sees  the  drops  of  sweat  like  blood  on  his  Godlike  brow  ; 
she  bears  in  mind  that  Jesus  Christ  is  suffering  thus  for  those 
who  put  their  trust  in  him,  and  she  gathers  strength  for  the 
conflict,  and  a  holy  calm  settles  on  her  spirit  at  the  thought 
of  what  he  endured  for  her. 

It  strikes  me  that  every  christian  will  discover  in  this 
thought  a  source  of  comfort  in  hours  of  trial.  He  must  be  a 
singular  christian  who  has  no  hours  of  pain ;  it  may  bet)f 
body  or  of  mind,  but  God  does  chasten  all  whom  he  loves, 
and  in  those  seasons  of  deep  distress,  when  all  the  waves  of 
sorrow  roll  over  us  and  threaten  to  swallow  us  up,  it  is  well 
to  look  away  to  the  garden  and  the  cross,  and  remember 
that  he  who  suffers  there  is  bearing  those  pains  for  us.  We 
live  because  he  died.  The  anguish  that  rent  His  spirit  from 
the  clay,  was  the  price  of  ouc  eternal  life  ! 

Such  a  thought  makes  it  easy  to  suffer.  Perhaps  our 
names  are  cast  out  as  evil.  And  he  was  reviled  by  those 
for  whom  he  bled. 

Perhaps  we  are  the  victims  of  slander,  and  suflfer  unjustly 
in  the  opinion  of  the  world.  And  he  was  wounded  in  the 
house  of  his  friends ;  slain  too,  by  those  who  ought  to  have 
hailed  him  their  King. 

Perhaps  we  are  despised  and  neglected  of  men.  So  was 
our  Master.  It  was  said  of  him  in  prophecy,  and  fulfilled 
in  sorrow. 

Perhaps  we  mourn  the  hidings  of  a  Father's  face.  He 
cried  "  My  God  !  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ?" 

Such  thoughts  as  these  are  good  for  us  in  the  midst  of  this 
dark  world ;  a  world  so  full  of  trials  that  we  need  not  wish 
to  make  it  our  home.  Let  us  study  Christ.  Let  us  love  to 
live  like  him,  suffer  with  him,  die  with  him,  if  we  would 
reign  and  rejoice  with  him  hereafter. 


324  WOMAN. 


Oii  ginal. 


WOMAN. 


BY   T.    E.    SCHOOLAR,    U.  S.  A. 


Woman,  content  to  pass  life's  pilgrimage  in  ministering 
to  the  wants  of  mankind,  seeks  not  the  pinnacle  of  fame, 
but  shrinks  from  the  gaze  of  the  multitude,  like  the  delicate 
flower  from  the  meridian  sun  ;  she  delights  in  works  of  be- 
nevolence and  mercy,  while  she  would  fain  draw  a  curtain 
around  her  noble  actions.  The  trump  of  fame  may  sound  the 
warrior's  deeds,  while  the  huzzas  of  the  multitude  drown  the 
orphan's  cry  and  the  widow's  moan  ;  and  the  statesman  may 
display  to  the  listening  multitude,  his  powers  of  eloquence, 
while  the  sculptured  marble  tells  their  greatness  to  follow- 
ing generations.  Not  so  with  her  whose  life  is  spent  in 
ameliorating  the  condition  of  suffering  humanity.  She 
seeks  no  prominent  position  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
world ;  the  theatre  chosen  for  the  display  of  her  noble 
powers  is  the  family  circle,  the  chamber  of  sickness  and 
death.  To  relieve  the  wants  of  the  needy,  soothe  and 
comfort  the  afflicted,  afford  consolation  to  the  distressed, 
instill  into  the  minds  of  the  ignorant  and  vicious  the  prin- 
ciples of  virtue  and  religion,  to  prepare  them  for  the  en- 
joyment of  the  blessings  of  life,  and  the  glories  of  Heaven, 
is  her  highest,  noblest  aim. 

Like  the  polar  star  to  erring  man,  she  never  forsakes  her 
station.  Do  the  storms  of  adversity  rage,  she  clings  still 
closer  to  him.  When  the  tempests  of  misfortune  lower, 
where,  if  not  on  woman's  breast  may  he  find  calm  repose  ? 
Does  persecution  follow  his  footsteps  ?.  Does  slander,  with 
her  thousand  tongues  assail  ?  Do  fortune,  health,  reputation, 
friends,  and  all  that  he  holds  dear  on  earth,  forsake  ?  'Tis 
then  the  sharer  of  his  joys  and  his  sorrows,  clings  still  closer 


SHE  IS   LAID   IK   THE   EARTH.  325 

to  him.  When  despondency  hangs  heaviest  over  him,  'tis 
then  the  firm  perseverance  of  devoted  woman  arouses  him 
from  despair,  and  prompts  him  to  action,  by  her  firm  reso- 
lution. 

Should  infidelity  attempt  to  destroy  religion's  hallowed 
influence,  where,  if  not  in  the  recesses  of  woman's  breast, 
would  it  find  an  asylum  ?  There  in  spite  of  all  that  the 
subtle  powers  of  darkness  could  devise,  it  would  remain 
until  we  should  with  surprise  behold  its  seeds  springing 
into  life,  and  controlling  the  actions  of  her  children,  in 
whose  infant  minds,  amid  the  deep  silence  of  night,  or  in 
sequestered  groves,  where  no  eye  penetrated  but  the  eye  of 
Omniscience,  she  had  instilled  the  great  principles  of  reli- 
gion, and  pointed  them  to  that  Redeemer,  at  the  foot  of 
whose  cross  woman  tarried,  and  at  whose  sepulchre  she 
first  awaited. 

The  thousands  which  have  been  saved  from  vice,  despair, 
d  ruin,  by  woman's  influence,  eternity  alone  can  disclose. 


r 


SHE  IS  LAID  IN  THE  EARTH! 

She's  laid  in  the  earth !  but  her  bright  spirit  soars 
To  the  regions  of  bliss,  from  these  sorrowful  shores ; 
She  moved,  in  her  beauty,  an  angel  while  here, 
And  I  saw  she  was  form'd  for  a  happier  sphere. 

Oh,  sad  are  the  sighs  for  her  absence  I  heave, 
And  sad  are  my  tears — ^though  'tis  fruitless  to  grieve  ; 
Yet  oft,  through  the  dark  mists  of  sorrow,  I  see 
In  fancy,  my  Mary  still  smiling  on  me  ! 

Wherever  I  go,  there's  no  object  I  trace 
Can  tear  from  my  mind  her  lov'd  form  or  her  face  ; 
Nor  time  can  my  soul  in  forgetfulness  steep  ; 
Her  dream-wafted  image  still  smiles  on  my  sleep. 

In  nights  calm  and  clear,  'mid  the  bright  orbs  I  try 
To  trace  her  blest  home  in  the  beautiful  sky ; 
And  I  gaze  on  some  star,  till  in  fancy  I  see 
Her  far-shining  spirit  still  smiling  on  me ! 


326  MORAL    HINTS. 


MORAL    HINTS. 


Mildness. — Be  always  as  mild  as  you  can ;  honey  attracts 
more  flies  than  vinegar.  If  you  err  let  it  be  on  the  side  of 
gentleness.  The  human  mind  is  so  constituted  that  it  resists 
severity  and  yields  to  softness. 

Spare  minutes. — Spare  minutes  are  the  gold  dust  of  time. 
Of  all  the  portions  of  our  life,  spare  moments  are  or  may  be 
the  most  fruitful  of  evil.  They  are  gaps  through  which 
temptations  find  the  easiest  access  to  our  hearts.  Let  them 
all  be  improved  with  care  ;  "  Sands  make  the  mountains  as 
moments  make  years." 

The  order  of  a  household. — To  establish  order  in  the 
household,  one  of  the  first  things  necessary  is  to  adopt  rules 
for  its  internal  arrangement  and  government.  Let  there  be 
a  fixed  time  for  meals,  for  worship  and  retirement.  Let 
punctuality  be  required  from  each  member,  and  soon  the 
habit  will  become  fixed  and  permanent.  This  greatly  helps 
to  give  stability  and  symmetry  to  the  character,  and  will 
save  from  many  a  snare. 

Industry  and  energy. — Resolution,  energy,  spirit  and 
courage,  with  a  faithful  improvement  of  time,  will  attain  any 
position  and  overcome  any  obstacle.  An  ordinary  intellect 
will,  by  industry  and  perseverance,  often  accomplish  more 
than  a  much  superior  one,  deficient  in  energy  and  the  power 
of  endurance. 

Cheerfulness. — Those  who  benefit  the  world  by  their 
labors,  who  here  remove  a  weed  and  there  plant  a  flower, 
must  be  cheerful.  Amidst  the  most  adverse  circumstances 
there  are  still  reasons  for  cheerfulness.  So  long  as  there 
are  motives  to  gratitude,  there  is  cause  for  cheerfulness. 

Give  a  few  minutes  to  that  child. — Few  parents  realize 
how  much  their  children  may  be  taught  at  home,  by  de- 
voting a  few  minutes  to  their  instruction  every  day.     Let 


» 


MORAL    HINTS.  327 

the  parent  make  the  experiment  only  during  the  hours  which 
are  not  spent  in  school.  Let  him  make  a  companion  of  his 
child,  converse  with  him,  propose  questions,  answer  inquiries, 
communicate  facts,  explain  difficulties,  the  meaning  of  things, 
and  the  reason  of  things,  and  all  in  so  easy  and  agreeable 
manner  that  it  will  be  no  task,  but  serve  to  awaken  curiosity 
and  interest  the  mind,  and  he  will  be  astonished  at  the  pro- 
gress he  will  make. 

Scolding. — I  never  knew  one  who  was  in  the  habit  of 
scolding  able  to  govern  a  family.  What  makes  people 
scold  ?  The  want  of  self-government.  How  then  can  they 
govern  others  ?  Those  who  govern  well  are  generally  calm. 
They  are  prompt  and  resolute,  but  steady  and  mild. 

To  AcauiRE  A  GOOD  REPUTATION. — Eudcavor  to  BE,  rather 
than  to  APPEAR  good.  Seize  the  present  opportunity,  and 
improve  it  to  the  utmost  in  doing  your 'duty.  Be  more 
ready  to  commend  than  blame.  If  you  have  occasion  to 
reprove,  first  convince  by  actual  kindness  that  it  is  your 
design  to  do  the  person  good.  Be  faithful  in  every  thing 
however  small.  Be  honest  in  all  your  dealings,  and  always 
do  to  others  as  you  would  be  done  by.  Let  all  know  that 
you  value  your  honor,  and  this  may  induce  them  to  value 
their  own. 

Parental  commands. — If  you  wish  to  be  obeyed,  be  care- 
ful to  make  few  commands,  and  see  that  they  are  obeyed. 
Run  no  hazard  in  giving  orders  that  may  by  any  possibility 
be  disobeyed.  If  you  make  them,  let  nothing  be  an  excuse 
for  disobedience. 

The  influence  of  the  eldest  child. — The  eldest  child 
will  be  a  model  after  which  the  younger  members  of  the 
family  will  be  fashioned.  The  taste,  the  habits,  the  charac- 
ter of  the  one,  will  very  likely  be  copied  by  the  others.  How 
great  th6  responsibility  of  the  parent  in  the  culture  and  train- 
ing then  of  the  eldest  child ! 


Original. 


/ 


BELUCIA. 


T.  Hastings. 


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ji 11 I ,1 

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)-- ^* —  — '^— <g-« — j- 


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O   my    soul,    what  means  this   sad  -  ness  ?  Where-fore  art  thou  thus  cast 
Let  tiiy  griefe    be      lumtd  to     glad-ness ;    Bid       thy  rest-less  fears  be- 


g-g 


F-F-H 


S?~»~« 


Is 


#— rr— 


Look  to      Je  -  sus,  Look  to    Je  -  sub,  And  rejoice  in    his    dear    name. 


8 


;p£5=PFf_= 


"F- 


1^       _-,-  — ,— .-    J—    r-  - 


What  though   Satan's  strong  temp- 
tations 
Vex  and  grieve  thee  day  by  day ; 
And  thy  sinful  inclinations 
Often  fill  thee  with  dismay ; 
Thou  shalt  conquer, 
Through    the   Lamb's    redeeming 
blood. 

Though  ten  thousand  ills  beset  thee, 
From  without  an  1  from  within  5 

Jesus  saith  he'll  ne'er  forget  thee, 
But  will  save  from  hell  and  sin : 

He  is  faithful, 
To  perform  his  gracious  word. 


=Si 


r-'^t-^4 


■*-<© 


Thouo;h  distresses  now  attend  thee. 
And  thou  tread'st  the  thorny  road ; 

His  right  hand  shall  still  defend  thee ; 
Soon  he'll  bring  thee  home  to  God ! 

Therefore  praise  him — 
Praise  the  great  Redeemer's  name. 

Oh,  that  I  could  now  adore  him, 

Like  the  heav'nly  host  above 
Who  forever  bow  before  him, 
And  unceasing  sing  his  love  ! 
Happy  songsters ! 
When  shall  I  your  chorus  join  ? 


MODESTY    IN    YOUNG    MEN. 


EDITORIAL. 


Painters  represent  modesty  as  a  beautiful  virgin  clothed 
in  blue ;  it  is  the  ornament  of  youth  as  gravity  is  of  age. 
There  is  something  inexpressibly  lovely  and  attractive  in 
this  virtue,  and  something  equally  odious  and  revolting  in  its 
opposite.  Young  men  who  are  modest  and  unassuming  will 
be  respected. 

The  modest  young  man  is  sweet-tempered,  kind  and  con- 
descending to  all ;  he  is  not  wont  to  put  on  supercilious  airs, 
nor  affect  superiority  to  any,  but  is  gentle  and  humble,  never 
looks  angry  when  spoken  to,  or  returns  a  short,  ungracious 
answer.  In  company  he  does  not  seek  to  engross  the  con- 
versation, nor  indulge  in  the  "loud"  laugh  which  speaks 
"  the  vacant  mind ;"  he  associates  with  the  virtuous,  and 
prefers  a  useful  to  a  showy  life.  He  is  not  vainly  ambitious 
to  surpass  others,  and  make  a  figure  in  the  world.  You 
never  see  him  standing  at  the  corners  of  the  streets,  segar 
in  hand,  puffing  volumes  of  smoke  into  the  faces  of  others 
who  pass  by ;  nor,  on  the  Sabbath,  is  he  seen  posted  at  the 
church  door  staring  at  those  who  come  and  go. 

Such  is  the  modest  young  man !  We  have  given  but  the 
outlines — we  have  drawn  the  picture  from  real  life.  We  love 
Buch  a  character  wherever  we  find  him,  whatever  may  be 
his  occupation,  family  connections  or  circumstances.  He 
Tiay  not  be  pious,  but  there  is  hope  in  his  case.  Society 
feels  an  interest  in  him,  and  many  are  the  prayers  silently 


334  MODESTY    IN    YOUNG    MEN. 

offered  up  in  his  behalf.  Commend  me  to  the  modest  young 
man  before  all  others. 

American  youth  were  once  characterised  for  their  modes- 
ty, but — what  shall  we  say? — The  form  of  the  lovely  virgin 
still  lingers  among  us,  but  the  glory  has  departed.  Thirty 
or  forty  years  of  unexampled  growth  and  prosperity  have 
produced  great  changes  in  the  state  of  society.  While  in 
this  period  of  transition  much  has  been  done  to  elevate  and 
improve  the  character  of  our  youth,  we  regret  to  say,  new 
and  powerful  causes  have  been  silently  operating  to  effect 
an  alarming  deterioration  of  manners.  The  manifest  decline 
of  modesty  marks  a  period  in  our  moral  history.  We  speak 
only  of  what  we  have  seen,  and  of  what  has  been  open  to 
the  observation  of  all. 

Go  into  whatever  of  the  walks  of  life  we  may,  and  we  can 
not  fail  to  see  a  great  change  has  passed  over  the  spirit  and 
manners  of  those  in  the  morning  of  life.  Little  boys  and 
girls  often  put  on  airs  in  the  Family  Circle  and  in  company, 
which,  patience,  like  that  of  Job,  can  scarcely  abide — and, 
alas !  who  is  not  shocked,  at  times,  at  observing  their  street 
manners.  Approaching  the  period  of  manhood,  what  marks 
of  improvement  do  we  see  ?  Now,  if  ever,  we  expect  to 
find  the  tree  in  full  blossom.  How  is  it?  many  of  the  blos- 
soms have  already  dropped  off — many  that  remain  are  pale 
and  sickly.  The  blossoms  of  Hope !  how  few  they  are ! 
While  many  of  our  youth  are  polished  in  their  manners,  and 
some  of  them  are  models  of  politeness,  we  discover  little  of 
that  genuine  virgin-like  modesty,  which  imparts  such  an  un- 
definable  charm  to  the  character  and  manners.  Where  now 
shall  we  find  that  delicate  respect  for  parents,  that  deference 
for  age,  and  that  profound  veneration  for  sacred  things, 
which  we  witnessed  in  the  good  old  times  of  patriarchal 
simplicity,  of  home-bred  and  home-fed  affections,  when  na- 
ture and  reason  harmonized  in  every  duty,  and  the  Word  of 
God  was  paramount  authority  with  old  and  young  ? 

Modesty,  with  other  retiring  graces,  seems  falling  into 
d'suetude  sq  fast,  that  we  should  not  be  surprised,  if  ere  long 


MODESTY    IN    YOUNG    MEN.  335 

ihe  word  itself  should  become  obsolete.  The  word  is  still 
found  in  our  vocabularies,  but  where  is  the  thing?  The 
counterfeit  resemblances  are  no  more  like  it  than  the  glare 
of  the  flickering  lamp  is  like  the  soft,  steady  light  of  the  stars. 
There  is  no  want  of  self-confidence,  fluency  of  speech  and 
fascination  of  manners ;  the  address  is  suited  to  the  company 
and  the  occasion.  How  different  this  from  the  softly  beam- 
ing eye — the  love-inspiring  tones,  of  trembling  diffidence  ? 

Young  men  are  earnestly  exhorted  to  aim  at  great  things 
— to  be  resolute  in  action — firm  in  purpose ;  but  little  com- 
paratively is  said  about  those  lovely,  retiring  graces,  which  are 
the  great  safeguards  of  virtue.  From  "hints"  occasionally 
dropped,  we  judge  some  confound  modesty  with  effeminacy, 
as  though  it  were  a  childish  weakness  to  blush,  and  evinced 
a  want  of  good  breeding  to  shrink  from  the  public  gaze.  It 
cannot  be  that  we  have  outgrown  this  virtue,  and  have  no 
longer  any  need  of  its  conservative  influence. 

Parents  seem,  in  general,  satisfied,  if  their  children  do  but 
possess  an  active,  enterprising  spirit,  and  are  armed  with 
moral  courage  and  brute  force  sufficient  to  win  their  way 
to  wealth  or  fame.  These  are  Counted  by  them  sure  prog- 
nostics of  success,  not  considering  that,  having  lost  the 
checks  and  balances  of  the  constitution,  the  entire  moral 
machinery  must,  ere  long,  become  hopelessly  deranged* 
The  modesty  that  restrains  is  as  necessary  as  the  force 
which  impels.  The  more  energy  a  young  man  possesses. 
the  more  destructive  it  will  prove  to  himself  and  others,  ex- 
cept it  be  controlled  and  regulated  by  moral  principle. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  want  of  modesty  has  ruined 
more  young  men  than  the  want  of  courage ;  and  when  a 
young  man  has  arrived  at  that  pass  that  he  can't  blush,  it 
may  be  feared  he  is  on  the  brink  of  ruin.  A  doating  mother 
may  think  her  son  a  piodigy;  a  father  may  proudly  boast 
that  he  has  no  son  who  is  afraid  of  his  shadow,  and  the  spoil- 
ed youth  may  imagine  he  has  face  enough  to  achieve  what- 
ever he  undertakes — he  has  an  intuitive  perception  of  what 
will   best   promote   his  interest.     He   spreads   his  sails  in 


836  FEMALE   BEAUTY. 

unknown  seas,  and  soon  finds  himself  unequal  to  the  task  of 
navigating  its  dark  and  stormy  waters.  In  the  battle  of  life, 
he  finds  something  more  is  necessary  than  muscle,  bone  and 
sinew,  or  even  a  vigorous  intellect.  A  sense  of  wickedness, 
coupled  with  a  feeling  of  dependence  on  the  Almighty,  is  the 
only  safeguard  of  youth  in  making  the  voyage  of  life.  The 
young  man  who  has  cast  his  anchor  within  the  veil,  will 
outride  every  storm,  and  at  last  enter  Heaven's  broad  and 
peaceful  haven  in  triumph. 


FEMALE    BEAUTY, 

We  are  so  accustomed  in  the  present  age,  to  behold  deli- 
cate women,  that  for  want  of  models  the  ideal  image  which 
we  form  of  them  has  been  very  much  changed,  What  are 
the  characteristics  of  beauty  as  represented  in  modern 
novels  ?  Instead  of  a  bright  and  healthy  complexion,  a 
graceful  activity,  and  youthful  vivacity,  we  hear  of  a  slender, 
aerial  form,  a  sylph-like  figure,  an  interesting  paleness,  occa- 
sionally relieved  by  a  shade  of  carnation,  an  expressive 
countenance  gently  tinged  with  melancholy.  But  it  must 
be  at  once  perceived  that  all  these  characteristics  are  exact- 
ly those  indicative  of  delicate  health ;  an  extremely  slender 
figure,  a  flitting  color,  and  a  languid  expression,  afford  no 
very  favorable  augury  for  a  future  mother,  or  for  a  wife, 
who  may,  perhaps,  be  called  upon  to  assist  her  husband  in 
adversity.  Yet  the  imagination  of  mothers  as  well  as 
daughters  is  fascinated  by  such  descriptions ;  they  are  afraid 
of  destroying  these  interesting  charms ;  and  we  will  meet 
with  some  girls  who  will  not  eat  for  fear  of  growing  corpu- 
lent, and  others  will  not  walk  for  fear  of  enlarging  their  feet; 
can  anything  be  more  pitiable  ? 


INFLUENCE    OF    CORRUPT    AUTHORS.  337 

4 
Original. 

INFLUENCE  OF  CORRUPT  AUTHORS. 

BY    MRS.    M.    E.    DOUBLEDAY. 

There  are  but  few  who  have  not  an  opportunity  of 
noticing  the  effect  which  the  constant  perusal  of  a  certain 
class  of  writers  often  produces  upon  the  forming  character. 

We  may  have  been  amused,  as  we  have  seen  a  stripling 
but  fairly  in  his  teens,  assuming  all  the  airs  of  a  favorite  hero 
of  Byron  or  Bulwer.  We  have  smiled  at  the  strut,  the  frown, 
the  affected  air  of  consequential  misery,  by  which  these 
young  gentlemen  choose  to  distinguish  themselves  from  the 
vulgar,  and  we  have  forgiven  the  contemptuous  curl  of  the 
lip,  the  rude  reply,  the  overbearing  assertion,  by  which  they 
demonstrate  this  superiority  ;  and  we  may  at  times  have 
found  ourselves  inclined  to  favor  the  fond  delusion  of  those 
friends  who  have  attributed  the  absence  of  every  quality, 
either  agreeable  or  useful,  to  the  conscious  possession  of 
superior  talent. 

But  as  these  young  men  advance  in  iife,  deeper  and  sadder 
thoughts  crowd  upon  us.  We  have  smiled  at  the  pertness 
of  the  boy — we  weep  over  the  profligacy  of  the  man.  The 
works  which  early  warped  the  mind,  which  made  boyhood 
unamiable.  dissatisfied  and  perverse, — which  taught  the 
child  to  despise  parental  counsel,  defy  parental  authority,  and 
break  away  from  the  restraints  of  home,  have  likewise  im- 
planted corrupt  principles,  formed  impure  tastes,  and  excited 
unholy  appetites,  and  the  man  is  before  us  a  Byron — but  not 
in  genius  ; — a  Bulwer  indeed  in  profligacy — distinguished, 
but  by  impiety,  by  the  disregard  of  all  social  decency  of  all 
moral  restraint ;  and  while  we  mourn  over  the  wreck  of 
parental  hope  and  expectation,  while  we  gi'ieve  at  the  lot  of 
wretchedness  which  these  individuals  are   fastening   upon 


338  INFLUENCE    OF    CORRUPT    AUTHORS. 

themselves,  we  feel  not  the  less  the  added  influence  which 
goes  to  swell  the  torrent  of  corruption  which  is  overspread- 
ing our  land. 

That  writers,  of  the  class  of  which  we  would  place  the 
authors  just  mentioned  at  the  head,  are  exerting  a  great  and 
pernicious  influence,  we  believe  will  be  generally  allowed, 
and  we  think  it  to  be  more  direct  and  powerful  than  many 
may  be  willing  to  acknowledge.  The  cheapness  of  republi- 
cation here,  causes  the  rapid  circulation  and  the  wide  diffu- 
sion of  these  works,  and  all  find  quick  and  easy  access  to 
them.  They  are  scattered  through  the  length  and  breadth 
of  our  land.  Their  soiled  pages  may  be  found  on  the  canal 
or  the  steamboat,  on  the  desk  of  the  lawyer,  or  the  counter 
of  the  merchant,  or  the  shop  board  of  the  artisan,  in  the  pub- 
He  room  of  the  hotel,  or  more  elegantly  bound — cleaner  with- 
out, but  not  more  pure  within — on  the  sofa  or  the  centre  table 
of  the  private  parlor.  They  are  generally,  if  not  universally 
read  ;  and  they  contain  a  miasma  which  will  always  taint 
the  moral  atmosphere  into  which  they  are  conveyed.  These 
distorted,  depraved  representations  of  humanity,  become  the 
models  which  mould  the  living  man. 

Where  there  are  strong  counteracting  influences,  they  may 
not  exert  their  full  effect.  Not  so  many  pseudo  Bulwers  or 
Byrons  may  spring  up.  They  may  present  rather  carica- 
tures than  resemblances.  Instead  of  becomins'  a  successful 
debauchee  or  a  finished  gambler,  the  young  aspirant  may 
content  himself  with  being  a  bad  poet,  or  an  idle,  inefficient 
member  of  society.  He  may  be  vain  rather  than  dissolute ; 
and  he  may  occupy  his  time  in  cultivating  his  whiskers, 
admiring  his  own  person,  and  bewailing  his  own  lot,  rather 
than  in  these  pursuits  which  will  more  deeply  corrupt  and 
deprave.  Still  we  attribute  much  of  the  wide-spread  and 
increasing  profligacy  among  us  to  the  direct  influence  of 
those  writings.  They  have  also  done  incalculable  mischief 
to  the  young,  in  the  contempt  which  they  inspire  for  honest 
labor,  and  the  employments  which  have  made  their  fathers 
happy  and  useful  ;  while  they  have  infused  an  eager  desire 


INFLUENCE    OP    CORRUPT    AUTHORS.  339 

for  wealth,  both  as  a  means  of  distinction  and  of  sensual 
gratification.  Many  a  young  man,  too  proud  to  labor,  has  not 
scrupled  to  commit  a  crime  to  secure  the  gratification  of  his 
morbid  tastes  or  unholy  passions. 

Nor  is  this  influence  confined  to  our  sons.  The  restraints 
of  society  and  of  the  domestic  circle  are  so  strong  upon 
women,  that  the  influence  of  writings  of  this  cast  is  often 
less  obvious  while  it  may  be  quite  as  powerful  ;  and  we  fear 
that  many  who  have  been  too  carefully  shielded  by  parental 
care,  and  guarded  by  parental  restraint,  to  fall  into  gross 
vice,  have  yet  been  made  restless  and  useless,  unhappy  and 
perverse,  from  the  excitement  of  a  wild,  if  not  impure  imagin- 
ation. The  principles  are  undermined,  and  the  delicacy  and 
purity  of  the  mind  is  tarnished  by  an  early  acquaintance 
with  these  works.  It  should  be  sufficient  to  banish  them 
from  our  families,  although  it  may  be  the  least  evil  which 
attends  their  perusal  that  they  create  a  distaste  for  the  sober 
duties,  the  homely  enjoyments  of  domestic  life.  The  young 
lady  identifies  herself  with  her  favorite  heroine,  and  is  con- 
stantly on  the  look  out  for  some  of  the  marvellous  changes 
and  surprises  to  which  heroines  are  subjected.  Very  wea- 
risome to  her  is  the  routine  of  every  day  life,  and  the  hum- 
ble, and  as  she  may  count  them,  degrading  occupations  of 
her  sex,  and  not  the  less  tedious  the  commonplace  men  and 
women  who  compose  the  real  world.  Her  hands  must  be 
unsoiled  by  labor,  for  since  the  days  of  Cinderella,  what 
heroine  has  degraded  herself  by  any  useful  employment? 
While  the  mother  is  toiling  in  the  kitchen,  the  daughter  is 
too  often  to  be  found  reclining  on  the  sofa  of  the  parlor, 
with  the  novel  in  her  hands,  and  although  she  may  find  jt 
difficult  to  fancy  her  plain  father  a  prince,  or  her  hard  work- 
ing mother  a  duchess,  she  can  still  dream  of  herself  as  some 
high  born  damsel,  destined  to  glitter  and  shine  in  courts,  or 
what  may  equally  gratify  the  imagination,  be  most  exquis- 
itely miserable,  and  her  dream  is  in  a  sense  verified.  She 
is  discontented,  unhappy  and  useless  enough  to  satisfy  any 
ordinary  lover  of  the  sentimental  and  romantic,  and  the  eo- 


340  INFLUENCE    OF    CORRUPT    AUTHORS. 

ergies  of  her  mind  are  sapped,  and  the  balance  of  her  char 
acter,  and  the  purity  of  her  heart  destroyed  by  idle  reveries, 
silly  wishes  and  vain  anticipations. 

The  vivid  imagination  of  the  young  reader  embodies  the 
morbid  creations  of  these  writers,  and  sheds  over  them  all 
the  brightness  of  youthful  fancy.  They  hold  communion 
with  them  in  the  dewy  freshness  of  the  morning,  and  still 
more  in  the  silence  and  stillness  of  the  night.  Their  very 
tones,  their  features,  their  sentiments,  are  all  familiar.  They 
enter  into  their  feelings,  they  adopt  their  principles,  and 
these  visionary  companions  exert  an  ever  active  and  present 
influence,  and  while  wise  parents  and  friends  are  instructing 
and  advising,  these  are  silently  moulding  the  character. 

We  fear  that  parents  are  hardly  aware  of  the  great  influ- 
ence which  works  of  the  imagination  exert  upon  the  minds 
and  hearts  of  their  children.  We  would  say  to  them,  would 
you  welcome  to  your  family  circle  such  men  and  such  women 
as  too  often  figure  in  the  pages  of  the  novelist  ?  Would  you 
make  them  the  friends  and  companions  of  your  sons — the 
associates  and  the  guardians  of  your  daughters  ?  Would  you 
seat  by  your  fireside  the  highwayman,  the  gambler,  the  liber- 
tine, with  the  unprincipled  wife,  the  abandoned  mistress,  and 
the  heartless,  deceiving  daughter  ?  To  such  would  you  resign 
the  leisure  of  your  children,  and  would  you  leave  them,  day 
after  day,  to  imbibe  their  sentiments,  to  be  deluded  by  their 
sophistry,  to  be  excited  by  their  example  ?  It  may  be  said 
that  the  dangers  to  which  the  young  in  real  life  would  be 
exposed  from  evil  companions  can  never  be  experienced  by 
merely  communing  with  the  fancies  of  the  brain.  We  grant 
that  the  evils  may  not  be  the  same,  yet,  in  some  respects,  the 
ideal  may  be  the  most  to  be  feared.  In  real  life  there  is 
something  in  every  exhibition  of  depravity  which  is  always 
revolting,  and  from  which  the  refined  in  taste  as  well  as  the 
pure  in  heart  will  recoil.  The  lair  of  the  bandit  is  not  a  cot- 
tage trellised  with  roses,  and  the  haunts  of  the  dissipated  are 
more  apt  to  be  redolent  of  the  fumes  of  tobacco  and  gin  than 
of  the  fragrance  of  flowers — but  these  writers  gild  with  tints 


INFLUENCE    OF    CORRUPT    AUTHORS.  341 

of  beauty  and  glory  the  deepest  scenes  of  depravity.  They 
steal  the  bow  from  heaven  to  place  it  over  the  portals  of  the 
pit,  and  the  young  reader  is  dazzled,  bewildered  and  lost. 

The  father — if  he  be  not  too  conscientious  to  read  the 
works  which  he  yet  freely  leaves  in  the  hands  of  his  chil- 
dren— the  father  may  sit  down  and  dissect  such  a  work,  and 
he  will  turn  disgusted  from  it.  He  will  compare  the  charac- 
ters there  delineated  with  the  world  as  it  is,  as  he  knows  it, 
and  he  will  ask  in  what  estimation  should  we  hold  such  men 
and  women  in  real  life — individuals  capable  of  such  conduct 
and  influenced  by  such  sentiments  ?  Not  so  the  son  or  daugh- 
ter. As  these  fancies  have  not  the  grossness  of  flesh  and 
blood,  they  do  not  inspire  the  disgust  which  the  exhibition  of 
such  depravity  in  real  life  would  excite  in  the  unpractised, 
while  they  yet  prepare  the  young  to  hail  associates  of  un- 
principled character,  and  to  be  initiated  into  scenes  of  similar 
depravity.  Thus  they  enable  the  corrupt  and  depraved  to 
maintain  their  position  in  society,  while  they  increase  their 
influence  in  making  them  the  realization  of  the  shadows  which 
have  so  long  filled  the  mind  of  the  visionary  dreamer.  The 
profligate  who  has  ruined  himself  by  his  excesses,  and 
whose  countenance  bears  the  stamp  of  his  evil  passions,  is 
the  very  pale,  interesting  young  gentleman,  with  the  "con- 
temptuous sneer"  and  the  '•  sarcastic  smile,"  after  whom  these 
young  ladies  liave  been  sighing,  and  whom  their  brothers 
desire  for  a  model,  for  although  bitterness,  sarcasm  and  mis- 
anthropy, to  the  uninitiated,  are  somewhat  repulsive  in  real 
life,  they  seem  to  be  the  crowning  graces,  and  indeed,  vir- 
tues of  many  of  the  heroes  of  modern  days.  An  alliance 
has  been  formed  in  the  minds  of  the  young  reader  between 
vice  and  genius,  elegance  and  depravity,  crime  and  great- 
ness. To  be  vicious  is  to  be  pleasing  fascinating — to  be 
virtuous,  is  to  be  dull  and  disagreeable. 

The  imagination,  like  the  other  faculties,  was  given  to  add 
to  the  happiijess  and  usefulness  of  man,  and  its  proper  culti- 
vation will  add  much  to  the  enjoyments  of  life.  Like  the 
pure  beams  of  the  sun  it  can  gild  the  darkest  clouds,  and 


342  HINTS    TO    YOUNG    MEN. 

shed  the  brightness  and  glory  of  a  higher  world  over  all  the 
gloom  of  this  ;  but  a  perverted  and  depraved  imagination 
will  most  effectually  corrupt,  and  those  whose  minds  have 
been  allowed  to  revel  in  scenes  of  impurity  need  not  but 
temptation  and  opportunity,  too  seldom  not  long  wanting,  to 
enter  upon  those  ways  which  lead  to  death. 


HINTS    TO    YOUNG    MEN. 

Be  economical.  No  matter  if  your  parents  are  worth 
millions,  it  is  not  the  less  proper  that  you  should  understand 
the  value  of  money,  and  the  honest,  honorable  means  of  ac- 
quiring it. — What  multitudes  of  young  men,  particularly  in 
our  cities,  make  fatal  shipwreck  of  reputation  and  health, 
and  eventually  of  property  by  a  neglect  of  this  maxim ! 
They  are  aware  that  their  fathers  obtained  their  wealth  by 
habits  of  industry,  but  they  are  ashamed  of  the  very  name. 
They  forget  that  wealth  in  this  country  passes  rapidly  from 
one  to  another,  and  that  he  who  is  rich  to-day  may  be  poor 
to-morrow ;  or  that  he  who  relies  on  wealth  arriassed  by  his 
father,  may  end  his  days  in  a  poor  house.  It  is  for  the 
young  man  to  say  whether  by  industry  and  economy  he  will 
secure  competence  and  respectability,  or  by  extravagance 
and  idleness  become  a  worthless  beggar,  and  an  outcast. 

Be  just.  In  the  course  of  life  a  man  frequently  finds  his 
interest  or  his  opinion  crossed  by  those  from  whom  he  had 
a  right  to  expect  better  things,  and  the  young  are  apt  to  feel 
such  matters  very  sensibly.  But  be  not  rash  in  your  con- 
demnation. Look  at  their  conduct  carefully,  and  be  just  to 
the  motives  that  prompt  it.  You  may  find  that,  were  you 
placed  in  their  position,  the  course  you  now  condemn  would 
be  the  most  proper  one  for  you,  and  the  one  you  would  be 
uniier  obligations  to  pursue.  A  little  cool  consideration 
would  avoid  much  censoriousness. 


THE    TWO    PICTURES.  34S 

*  Original. 

THE    TWO    PICTURES. 

THE  BRIGHT  SIDE. 

BY    MRS.    ANNA    L.    SNELLING. 

It  was  a  joyous  sight— that  marriage  of  the  young,  beau- 
tiful, wealthy,  and  happy.  The  bridegroom  with  his  stately 
form,  high  and  intellectual  brow,  dark  eloquent  eyes,  and 
soul  beaming  smile, — and  the  bride  timid  and  graceful  as  the 
fawn,  her  delicate  cheek  tinged  with  a  color  as  soft  and 
vai'ied  as  an  ocean  shell,  her  blue  eyes  veiled  beneath  their 
long  lashes  as  the  violet  closes  its  petals  against  the  ardent 
beams  of  the  sun,  and  her  small  chiseled  mouth,  where  the 
usual  cheerful  smile  was  somewhat  checked  by  an  expression 
of  sadness,  for  she  was  going  for  the  first  time  far,  far  away 
from  the  parents  around  whose  aged  hearts  this  beautiful 
flower  had  twined  itself  so  closely,  that  it  seemed  severing 
the  very  heart  strings  to  give  her  up  thus  to  the  guardian 
care  and  yet  untried  affection  of  one  almost  a  stranger ;  and 
she,  the  gay  young  bride,  sorrowed  also,  but  it  was  a  sorrow 
so  mingled  with  other  emotions — she  was  so  blest — so  un- 
speakably happy  in  the  devoted  attention  of  her  affianced, 
that  the  tear  vanished  from  her  cheek  as  soon  as  shed,  and 
she  fondly  anticipated  that  in  her  case  at  least,  "  Love's 
young  dream  would  be  more  than  verified."  Alas  !  for  the 
frailty  of  human  nature !  The  trail  of  the  serpent  is  still 
darkly  mingled  with  the  floVery  paths  of  life,  his  breath  is 
ever  breathing  its  pestilence,  and  ever  choosing  for  its  vie 
tims  the  weakest  and  most  unsuspecting  of  God's  creation. 

THE  DARK   SIDE. 
"  The  first  hour  of  morning  has  struck,  and  yet  he  comes 
not !  my  fire  has  gone  out — the  last  candle  nearly  consumed. 
Cold,  dark,  weary,  wretched,  and  alone  !"     Thus  soliloquised 


344  THE    TWO    PICTURES. 

that  beautiful  young  bride  two  years  after  her  marriage. 
*'  How  many  long  miserable  days  and  nights  am  J  to  pass  in 
this  manner  ?  Charles,  Charles,  my  husband,  why  drive  me 
thus  to  despair  ?  A  strange  feehng  comes  over  me — my 
heart  seems  turning  to  ice — my  limbs  scarcely  support  me. 
This  dreadful  struggle  cannot  last  long.  But  in  the  grave 
there  is  peace.  Oh,  my  beloved  parents,  would  that  your 
wretched  daughter  might  lay  her  aching  head  upon  your 
bosoms,  as  it  once  did,  and  find  there  sympathy  and  rest 
Look  down  from  your  blest  abode  in  heaven,  and  breathe  a 
prayer  for  your  unhappy  child."  The  neglected  wife  rose 
and  tottered  to  the  small  crib  where  reposed  her  only  child — 
a  lovely  boy  from  whose  innocent  brow  the  dark  curls  floated 
and  rested  upon  the  little  pillow,  one  stray  lock  twined 
around  the  dimpled  hand  supporting  the  crimsoned  cheek. 
He  slept,  but  uneasily.  The  tears  were  not  yet  dried  on  his 
dark  lashes,  for  he  had  sunk  to  slumber  hungry  and  cold,  and 
the  mother  had  not  means  to  prevent  it.  She  rubbed  his 
little  hands  and  feet,  wrapped  the  scanty  coverlet  more 
closely  around  him,  and  then  took  the  shawl  from  her  ow^n 
shivering  form,  laid  it  over  him,  and  tucked  it  in  on  all  sides, 
that  the  piercing  night  wind  might  not  enter.  "  God  forgive 
my  murmuring,  while  I  have  this  treasure  still  left  to  comfort 
me  !"  and  tears  fell  copiously  upon  the  cherub  face  of  her 
boy.  Again  he  moved  as  if  in  pain,  so  she  checked  her 
grief,  and  sung  to  quiet  him,  as  she  had  done  in  happier  days. 
Oh,  the  sadness  of  that  song  !*  Not  such  as  joyful  parents 
sing — SHE  could  not  say — 

"  Sleep  my  babe,  thy  food  and  raiment. 
House  and  home  fhy  friends  provide ; 
All  without  thy  care  or  payment, 

All  thy  wants  are  well  supplied." 

No — the  words  would  have  choked  her.  Alas  !  poor 
Emma  !  the  mirthful  strams  with  wiiich  thou  once  held  e  i- 
tranced  a  throng  of  admiring  listeners,  no  longer  echo  from 
thy  trembling  lips — 


THE    TWO    PICTURES.  34ti 

Thou  knowest  not  the  art 
To  breathe  a  joyous  chord  from  an  o'erburdened  heart ! 

A  step  is  heard — the  loud  slamming  of  a  door — and  a  voice 
harsh  and  threatening  in  its  tones  disturbs  the  midnight  silence. 
The  wife — the  mother — starts  up,  not  to  rush  forward  with 
flushed  cheek,  sparkling  eyes,  and  beating  heart,  to  welcome 
the  intruder,  but  to  shrink  pale  and  shuddering  into  the 
ferthest  corner  of  the  room,  where,  with  clasped  hands,  her 
teeth  chattering,  her  cheek  pale  as  ashes,  her  form  cowering 
as  if  from  anticipated  violence,  the  young,  fragile,  dependent 
creature,  who  had  been  promised  a  brilliant,  happy  life,  blest 
by  unchanging  care  and  tenderness,  awaited  the  entrance  of 
her  HUSBAND  !  The  door  opened — he  entered — a  horrible 
oath  upon  his  lips,  the  fire  of  intoxication  blazing  in  his  eye, 
and  his  whole  appearance  and  manner  denoting  plainly  what 
serpent  had  thus  crept  into  the  paradise  of  home,  and 
blighted  the  fairest  prospects. 

We  have  no  time  now  to  go  back  and  trace,  step  by  step, 
the  progress  of  ruin,  in  one  whose  manly  beauty,  gifted  mind, 
and  splendid  talents,  had  once  placed  him  high  in  the  opinion 
of  the  world.  His  voice  had  been  heard  in  the  Senates  of 
our  nation,  his  appearance  had  been  hailed  with  pride  in  the 
saloons  of  wealth  and  fashion.  He  and  his  beautiful  wife 
had  been  the  "  admired  of  all  admirers,"  they  had  been 
pointed  out  as  singular  examples  of  conjugal  happiness  and 
devotion.  But  a  poisonous  serpent  entered  that  Eden — the 
husband,  the  father,  had  become  the  prey  of  gamblers,  and 
found  his  home  in  the  haunts  of  dissipation  and  vice,  and  the 
wife  yielding  like  a  crushed  flower  to  the  sudden  tempest, 
sunk  helplessly  beneath  the  dreadful  blow. 

"  What  are  you  sitting  up  so  late  for,  Emma?"  were  his 
first  words.  "  I  told  you  to  go  to  bed  as  usual,  and  not  wait 
for  me ;  you  know  since  my  failure,  I  have  had  business  that 
has  kept  me  out  late  at  night,"  Emma  well  knew  what  that 
BUSINESS  WAS,  but  shc  said  nothing,  "  yet  that  is  no  reason 
you  should  sit  moping  here,  and  looking  like  a  ghost,"  the 
night  before  he  had  reproached  her  for  not  sitting  up  for 


34C  THE    TWO    PICTURES. 

him,  "  but  since  you  are  up,  for  mercy  sake  get  me  some- 
thing to  eat,  and  take  this  cursed  candle  away,  and  bring  a 
new  one." 

"  There  is  no4  a  morsel  of  food  in  the  house,  Charles," 
repliicd  Emma  in  a  sad  tone.  "  I  have  tasted  nothing  since 
morning,  when  you  ate  the  last  roll.  Our  poor  boy  has  been 
sick  all  day,  and  I  have  been  unable  to  procure  anything, 
besides  as  you  were  absent  all  the  time." 

"  Well,  well,  Em,  don't'  preach  a  sermon.  Never  mind 
the  supper,  and  as  you  will  soon  go  to  bed  you  will  not  want 
another  candle.  But  I  must  go  out  again — and — and  I  have 
a  small  favor  to  ask  of  you.  Come,  don't  look  so  doleful  at 
the  idea  of  my  going  off  again  ;  it  is  to  procure  comforts  for 
to-morrow.  Now,  there's  a  good  girl,  let  me  have  the  jewels 
I  have  more  than  once  asked  you  for.  They  shall  not  be 
sacrificed.  You  will  have  them  back  again,  and  plenty  of 
money  beside.     Come,  get  them,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  Charles,  dear  Charles,  do  not  take  away  our  only 
resource  in  case  of  greater  need  !  You  know  our  watches 
and  chains  are  gone  forever,  and  you  had  the  same  hopes 
about  them."  She  would  have  gone  on,  but  seeing  an  angry 
cloud  gathering  on  her  husband's  brow,  and  being  herself 
worn  out  and  longing  for  rest,  she  at  length  yielded,  and 
went  into  the  next  room  to  get  the  box  which  contained 
many  precious  relics,  the  gifts  of  her  parents  and  other  friends. 
Over  these  dropped  bitter  tears,  as  she  took  them  up  one  by 
one,  pressed  them  to  her  lips,  and  then  replaced'  them  in  the 
box.  But  there  were  other  jewels  there,  of  which  she  took 
no  heed  at  the  moment,  though  valueless  in  themselves,  yet 
destined  to  be  the  source  of  inestimable  blessings  to  her. 

Charles  took  the  box  eagerly  from  her  hand,  and  telling 
her  he  should  be  back  soon,  bade  her  retire  to  rest,  and 
rushed  from  the  house.  The  weeping  wife  sunk  exhausted 
upon  her  solitary  couch,  and  for  the  first  time  for  many 
months  fell  into  a  deep  slumber.  The  Gambler  returned  tc 
the  haunt  he  had  left ;  and  left  as  his  associates  thought  and 
expressed  it,  "  quite  cleaned  out."     They  were  somewhat 


THE    TWO    PICTURES.  347 

astonished  at  his  speedy  return,  and  his  look  of  exultation. 
*•  Guess  Charley's  got  a  lift,"  says  one  ;  and  "  let  him  fork 
over,"  says  another,  "  we'll  soon  strip  him."  Charles  took 
the  box  from  his  pocket,  and  opened  it ;  he  had  not  done  so 
before  he  left  home.  Why  does  he  start  as  if  an  adder  had 
stung  him  ?  The  jewels  were  all  there,  untouched,  even 
amid  the  want  and  suffering  to  which  he  had  doomed  his 
lovely  wife.  What  then  appalled  him  ?  There,  in  his  own 
hand  writing,  were  the  fond  and  impassioned  letters  he  had 
written  when  he  wished  to  win  the  sweet  Emma  Linton. 
There  were  the  verses  he  had  written  in  her  praise.  There 
were  the  trinkets  he  had  given  her,  and  there  was  the 
RING,  which,  with  the  pastor's  prayer  and  blessing,  had  bound 
them  to  each  other  ;  and  there  were  these  verses  which  his 
neglected  wife  had  written  in  her  moments  of  despondency 
with  a  faint  hope  of  recalling  his  wandering  affections — 

Thou  wert  my  adored  one — my  husband,  my  all  ! 

My  pathway  seemed  strewed  with  bright  flowers ; 
I  wished  not  my  childhood's  gay  hours  to  recall, 

For  love,  with  its  blessings,  was  ours. 
No  shadow  of  doubt  crossed  my  bosom  the  while, 

As  I  stood  at  the  altar  with  thee  ; 
For  I  heard  but  thy  voice,  and  I  saw  but  thy  smile. 

And  life  was  all  sunshine  to  me. 
In  the  angel's  own  book  was  recorded  thy  vow, 

To  love,  to  protect,  and  to  guide ; 
Why  that  moment  recall !   thou'st  forgotten  it  now. 

And  her  who  was  once  thy  sole  pride. 
Once  I  listened  with  joy  as  thy  footstep  drew  nigh. 

And  welcomed  the  day's  happy  close ; 
Now  sad  and  alone  the  long  hours  pass  by. 

And  night  brings  to  me  no  repose. 
The  dark  haunts  of  vice  are  thy  chosen  abode. 

And  the  wine  cup  is  drained  with  delight. 
Thy  fortune  is  wasted — thy  health  is  destroyed, 

And  extinguished  is  reason's  pure  light. 
<Iome  back  to  the  heart,  in  joy,  sorrow,  or  woe, 

Still  fondly  and  truly  thine  own ; 
fjist  to  friondshii)'s  kind  voice,  chase  the  cloud  from  my  brow, 

Nor  leave  me  in  sadness  alone. 


348  THE    TWO    PICTURES. 

Dark  dreams  of  llic  future  now  rise  on  mj-  soul, 

Oil,  how  the  rough  storm  shall  I  brave  r 
Thougiits  rush  on  my  mind,  that  I  cannot  control. 

The  sole  refuge  from  which  seems  the  grave  • 
Come  back,  like  the  Dove,  with  the  olive  of  peace. 

Bringing  joy  to  this  desolate  breast ; 
Kestore  me  thy  love,  that  this  anguish  may  cease, 

And  the  grief-stricken  spirit  have  rest. 
Though  forgotten  thy  vow — I'll  remember  thy  love, 

In  happier  hours,  was  all  mine ; 
And  forgiving  the  past,  by  devotion  will  prove 

That  this  heart  is  still  worthy  of  thine. 

The  jeers  of  his  profligate  companions  fell  unheeded  upon  his 
ear.  Their  invitations  to  come  forward  and  redeem  his  losses, 
if  he  could,  with  his  newly  acquired  treasure,  galled  him  to  the 
very  soul.  Springing  up  and  clasping  the  precious  box  of 
jewels  to  his  heart,  he  exclaimed,  "  No,  no,  keep  your  ill- 
gotten  gains,  this  is  the  last  time  I  ever  enter  these  doors." 

THE  BRIGHT  SIDE. 
Emma  awoke  from  a  long  and  refreshing  slumber  late  in 
the  morning.  Her  first  thoughts  were  for  her  child,  and  she 
turned  quickly  towards  its  little  crib.  It  was  empty  !  She 
started  up  with  a  shriek  of  terror,  but  what  was  her  astonish- 
ment to  behold  by  the  side  of  her  bed,  Charles,  her  still  idol- 
ized husband,  with  their  darling  boy  seated  on  his  knee.  Her 
voice  interrupted  the  artless  prattling  of  the  child,  and  the 
fond  caresses  of  the  repentant  father.  "  Emma,  my  life, 
my  love,  my  angel  wife,  forgive  me,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  have 
been  mad,  but  I  am  mad  no  longer.  I  have  dashed  the  ex- 
hilirating  cup  from  my  lips  forever — I  have  signed  the 
PLEDGE — and  returned  to  my  home  and  happiness  a  changed 
man.  Raise  thy  head,  sweet  wife,  and  smile  as  you  did  when 
I  first  clasped  you  to  my  heart.  Never  more  shall  you  suf- 
fer through  my  neglect.  See  !  a  warm  fire  and  comfortable 
breakfast  await  you,  and  there  is  your  box  of  jewels,  the 
contents  of  which  have  wrought  your  husband's  salvation 
from  total  ruin. 


THE  CANTERBURY   BEtl. 


THE    FLIGHT    INTO    EGYPT.  549 


THE    FLIGHT    INTO    EGYPT. 


WRITTEN  BY  A  YOUNG  LADY  13  YEARS  OF  AGE. 


The  Sun  had  sunk  behind  the  stately  hills 
That  girt  about  the  walls  of  Bethlehem ; — 
The  dark  luxuriant  olive  of  the  south 
Bent  down  her  branches,  laden  with  rich  fruit, 
And  lavished  bounty  on  the  passi;ig  breeze ; — 
The  cedar  towered  in  summer's  rich  array. 
And  gorgeous  scenes  of  Jewish  pomp  and  pride 
Shone  forth  amid  the  splendid  palaces. 

The  firmament  threw  ofl  its  sombre  hues. 

And  put  its  gayer  robes  of  gladness  on. 

'Twas  night — and  Heaven's  broad  arching  canopy 

Was  hung  with  lamps  by  God's  own  hands  first  formed; 

The  bard  had  lain  his  lyre  aside  to  rest — 

The  bird  of  night  had  sung  her  evening  lay. 

And  laid  her  wearied  limbs  to  rest  awhile 

On  mossy  couch  by  industry  prepared. 

The  Moon  arose,  the  beauteous  queen  of  night. 

And  cast  abroad  her  mild  and  mellow  beams 

Across  the  verdant  vales  of  Bethlehem. 

Warned  by  the  voice  of  God,  a  woman  weak, 
A  holy  virgin  fair,  did  wend  her  way 
Towards  Egypt  of  the  princely  Ptolemies, 
Where  rise  the  pillar  and  the  pyramid. 
The  mighty  wondere  of  the  sons  of  men. 
Her  dark  curls  floated  on  the  midnight  breeze ; 
Her  clear,  calm,  love-lit  eyes  intensely  bent 
On  the  dear  burthen  in  her  snowy  arms — 
No  gems  nor  rubies  rich  did  grace  its  head, 
Reposing  on  the  spotless  virgin's  breast — 
Behold,  there  lay  the  Holy  Son  of  Grod. 


86Q  THE    FLIGHT    INTO    EGYPT. 

Lo !  Rachel  weeps  and  moums  her  lovely  babes. 

Slain  by  a  monarch's  cruelty  and  pride, 

'Midst  havoc  of  the  holy  innocents, 

On  couch  of  down,  'mid  curtains  rich  and  rare, 

'Mid  chiseled  beauty  wrought  by  cunning  art, 

Judea's  mighty  king  breathes  out  his  last; — 

Nor  courtiers  grand,  nor  splendid  palaces 

Can  still  the  accusing  monitor  within — 

Past  sins  come  up  to  harrow  still  his  soul. 

So  fraught  with  guilt  and  crime  of  blackest  dye — 

His  conscience  tells — in  agony  he  dies. 

Oh  how  unlike  the  humble  Christian's  death ! 

I  saw  a  Christian  die — a  holy  saint — 
She  died  in  youthful  prime  and  loveliness. 
I  saw  her  dark  blue  eyes,  so  calm  and  clear. 
Grow  fixed  in  death,  and  yet  of  glory  tell — 
And  heard  the  music  of  her  voice  grow  faint- 
She  struggled  not,  but  gently  breathed  her  last. 
And  went  to  join  the  angel  choir  above. 
Oh  how  unlike  the  guilty  Herod's  death. 

The  Jews,  the  seed  of  Abraham  of  old. 
Had  stubborn  grown  and  proud  of  earthly  fame ; 
But  God  in  love  redeems  his  promise  now, 
And  shows  his  mercy  on  the  favored  tribe. 
Look  ye,  and  wonder  now,  ye  vainly  wise. 
For  lo !  the  Son  of  God  is  come  on  Earth — 
Nor  trump,  nor  clarion  tells  this  gladdened  hoar — 
Nor  pomp,  nor  grand  magnificent  array 
Precedes  his  enti-ance  on  this  guilty  world. 
I  But  see,  o'er  wild  and  rugged  hills  and  dales. 

The  mighty  Judge  of  Earth  is  borne  in  flight. 

Such  was  his  advent  once,  but  time  shall  come 
When  stars  shall  fall,  the  spheres  be  swept  away— 
When  trump  shall  sound,  the  clarion  rend  the  sky. 
And  angels  swell  the  chorus  high  and  loud. 
The  Earth  and  sea  shall  then  give  up  their  dead. 
For  King  of  kings  and  Lord  of  lords  hath  come. 
To  show  his  power  and  claim  his  rightful  due. 


NATURE A    SOURCE    OF    CHEERFULNESS.  351 


Original. 

NATURE— A  SOURCE  OF  CHEERFULNESS. 

BY    REV.    M.    MONTAGUE. 

"  There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods. 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes — " 

"  Man  is  made  to  mourn"  is  a  truth  which  in  some  degree 
surely  we  learn  from  every  day's  recurrence.  But  while 
tears  and  human  woe  are  to  us  all  such  familiar  acquaintan- 
ces, it  may  be  well  for  us  to  inquire,  whether  joy  might  not 
oftener  be  our  companion,  whether  serenity  and  hope  and 
gladness  might  not  oftener  light  up  the  countenance,  taking 
the  place  of  anxiety,  despondency  and  sorrow,  which  are  ob- 
served or  felt  on  every  hand. 

Is  thy  heart  sad,  is  thy  countenance  gloomy,  dost  thou  ever 
call  this  world  dark  and  cold  and  dreary?  Then,  with  me, 
welcome  Nature  as  a  ministering  angel  sent  for  thy  behests 
— come  out  and  welcome  its  communions.  Nature  is  full  of 
MUSIC.  Come  out  with  me  and  listen  a  moment  to  its  songs 
and  its  songsters — its  choirs  and  its  choruses.  It  is  spring 
time  ;  and  so  let  us  go  out  to  the  grove  and  the  old  forests — 
a  thousand  woodland  notes  are  breaking  in  softest  and  Sweet- 
est harmony  on  the  ear.  It  is  their  time  of  loves — the  little 
birds.  How  does  the  Great  Life  cause  the  poetry  of  our  life 
to  gush  out  by  the  motion  of  such  tender  sensibilities !  Mu- 
sic— O,  ye  little  warblers !  I  feel  it  now — ye  pour  it  into  my 
soul — now  with  your  twittering  gleesomeness — now  in  notes 
wild  and  loud  and  long — now  low,  soft  and  plaintive.  Come 
forth  and  listen.  Sit  down  on  this  mossy  brook — bank,  be- 
neath this  aged  pine  tree.  Above  us,  listen  to  the  zephyr, 
its  cadences  are  now  melting  away  into  the  still  and  liquid 
air — now  rising — now  swelling — now  falling — ^O,  the  sweet 


352  NATURE A    SOURCE    OF    CHEERFULinESS. 

zephyr,  the  breeze — ye  are  making  wild  havoc  of  my  fancy 
as  your  gentle  fingers  sweep  the  harp-strings  of  the  soul ! 
Look  down  at  our  feet — sweet  music  comes  up  from  those 
dimpling  waters  as  they  dance  on  in  their  gladness  to  the 
sea — the  murmuring  of  that  bright  cascade  just  up  among 
the  trees.  This  is  some  of  Nature's  music.  But  where  have 
gone  those  dark  lines  of  gloominess  and  care  which  were  just 
now  on  thy  brow  ? 

Nature,  too,  is  full  of  beautiful  pencilings.  And  how — 
where  shall  we  begin  to  look  ?  Shall  it  be  in  Autumn  or  in 
the  Spring — in  the  Summer  or  in  cold  Winter  ?  Shall  it  be 
in  the  blue  sky  up  yonder,,  or  in  the  emerald  tints  of  the 
ocean,  where  fairy  forms  sport  with  the  lone  moonbeam  in 
their  coral  home  ?  Shall  it  be  in  the  bloom  and  blush  of 
flowers — ^the  green  grasss — the  waving  harvests — the  varie- 
gated hues  of  autumn,  when  the  dying  year  is  decking  her- 
self in  richest  colorings,  or  shall  it  be  with  the  beautifully 
bended  rainbow — the  golden  clouds  which  twine  and  wreath 
their  gorgeous  robes  about  the  setting  sun,  and  with  the 
sparkling  gems  which  shine  out  when  the  clear  night  comes 
on  ?  We  will  stop  now  to  begin  with  none  of  all  these.  The 
"  Picture  Gallery"  of  Nature  is  not  comprehended  at  one 
view.  The  panorama  about  us  is  wide-spreading  and  glori- 
ous. Nature  is  rich  in  beautiful  paintings.  But — and  has 
that  look  of  disquietude  so  soon  given  place  to  that  calm  and 
cheerful  countenance  ? 

But  again  of  architectural  speclmens.  Nature  affords 
the  choicest.  Look  up  to  the  spacious  dome  of  this  great 
temple  we  live  in — "its  blue  o'erarching  canopy" — to  its 
broad  and  stately  pillars^  the  mountains,  lofty  and  majestic,, 
rough,  unhewn.  Look  out  upon  the  tempest-beaten  oak  of 
a  hundred  winters,  as  in  its  efflorescence  and  strength  it 
reaches  out  its  sheltering  arms  to  its  fellows.  Angles  and 
turrets  and  columns  now  in  complexity — now  in  simplicity 
and  grace,  charm  the  soul  of  him  who  sees  with  the  seeing  eye.^ 

Nature  is  full  of  variety.  The  monotony  of  pleasures,, 
whether  of  sight  or  sound,  away  with  such,  though,  exquisite 


NATURE A    SOUnCE    OF    CHEERFULNESS.  353 

and  rare,  their  power  to  charm  and  delight  the  soul  is  only  for 
a  moment.  But  come  out  and  breathe  the  breath  of  the  open 
day.  Does  this  wild  mountain  spot  fail  to  awaken  our  rap- 
turous emotion,  with  its  high  and  rocky  battlements  down 
there,  its  steep  colonnades  and  shelving  cliffs,  its  covering  of 
shaggy  shrubs — of  wild,  coarse  grass.  Go  down,  then,  into 
this  valley  below,  so  smiling  it  looks.  Drink  in  the  fragrance 
of  its  flowers,  wander  along  up  by  its  winding  and  romantic 
stream.  But  will  you  be  pleased  with  neither  the  mountain 
or  the  valley  ?  Then,  O  then  come  out  to  the  rejoicing  pas- 
tures, the  verdant  landscape,  the  woods  and  the  dark  forests. 
Go  out  where  you  will,  and  look  on  the  ten  thousand  changing 
scenes  above,  below,  and  around  you.  To  the  sky,  *'  Look 
how  the  glow  of  Heaven  is  thick  i«laid  with  pictures  of 
bright  gold."  To  the  Earth — go  where  you  will,  and  in 
Nature's  endless  variety  you  shall — 

"  Find  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks. 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing." 

A  higher  good,  doubtless,  may  be  derived  from  Nature 
STUDIED  in  its  properties  and  general  laws,  not  merely  looked 
AT  in  its  forms.  But  as  an  object  to  be  looked  at,  how  de- 
lightful, yet  how  often  tieglected  !  Let  me  take  my  fair 
sisters  by  the  hand,  and  lead  them  over  the  fields  and  through 
the  groves.  Let  them  look,  and  listen,  and  breathe  in  the 
pure  air  of  heaven.  The  dull  spirits  will  be  quickened,  the 
glad  smile  will  oftener  light  up  the  countenance,  and  still 
more  will  every  look  beam  with  a  heavenly  serenity,  if,  in  all 
that  is  seen,  and  felt,  and  heard,  the  heart  can  respond  to  the 
sentiment  of  the  Christian  poet,  whose  soul  was  ever  en- 
tranced with  the  beauties  of  Nature. 

"  My  Father  made  them  all." 


354  REASONS    FOR    FAMILY    WORSHIP. 

Original 

REASONS  FOR  FAMILY  WORSHIP. 

BY     REV.     C.    A.     SMITH. 

The  duty  of  worshipping  God  in  our  families  every  day, 
by  reading  a  portion  of  his  word  and  calling  upon  his  name 
in  prayer,  may  be  enforced  by  several  considerations,  each 
of  which  is  sufficiently  weighty  to  secure  its  habitual  per- 
formance.    And  among  the  rest  consider — 

1.  The  universal  providexce  of  God,  especially  in  as  far 
as  we  are  indebted  to  it  for  our  social  enjoyments.  If,  as 
individuals,  we  are  bound  to  thank  the  Almighty  for  our  per- 
sonal comforts,  for  the  preservation  of  our  lives  and  the  use 
of  our  faculties,  are  we  not  equally  bound  to  thank  him  for 
the  institution  and  defence  of  those  social  relations  which 
exist  in  the  domestic  circle,  and  render  that  circle  so  attractive 
to  some  of  the  warmest  and  purest  affections  of  the  heart  ? 
When  we  wish  to  acknowledge  our  individual  blessings,  we 
may  do  it  alone  ;  but  what  we  enjoy  in  common,  should  be 
acknowledged  by  common  acts  of  devotion.  We  sometimes 
see  a  whole  nation,  when  any  great  calamity  befalls  it,  or 
when  some  signal  mercy  is  conferred,  bowing  in  supplication 
or  praise  before  that  Being  whose  providential  dispensation 
has  affected,  in  a  measure,  the  interests  of  all.  Every  family 
has  its  own  social  experience,  which  calls  for  social  acknow- 
ledgment. So  closely  are  the  interests  of  all  the  members 
bound  up  in  the  interest  of  each,  that  if  one  suffer,  all  suffer 
with  it ;  or  if  one  rejoice,  all  rejoice  with  it.  When  sickness 
comes,  or  affliction  in  any  of  its  forms,  what  a  deep  and  uni- 
versal sympathy  does  it  create  in  the  feelings  of  every  mem- 
ber of  the  household  !  And  when  the  glow  of  health  again 
visits  the  cheek  that  was  pallid  with  disease,  the  sensation  of 
joy  inspires  every  heart.  And  so  it  is  with  those  mercies 
that  are  experienced   in  the  family  circle  every  day  :   the 


REASONS    FOR    FAMILY    WORSHIP.  ^5 

happiness  of  each  individual  contributes  materially  to  the 
sum  total  of  social  enjoyment ;  and  therefore  every  family, 
as  constituting  one  body  with  different  members,  should 
unitedly  bow  before  God,  when  the  light  of  prosperity  is 
beaming  around  them,  or  when  they  are  surrounded  by  the 
shadows  of  a  darker  dispensation. 

We  acknowledge  the  duty  of  social  worship  in  assembling 
on  the  Sabbath.  Whenever  we  come  together  in  the  sanc- 
tuary, we  admit  that  acts  of  secret  devotion  are  not  sufficient. 
We  have  social  wants  and  sympathies  and  interests,  which 
summon,  us  to  the  place  of  prayer  and  praise,  and  prompt  us 
to  make  common  cause  in  our  supplications  to  Heaven. 
And  if  it  is  proper  for  a  nation,  in  obedience  to  this  social 
law,  to  bow  before  God  as  a  nation,  or  for  a  church  as  a 
church,  it  is  certainly  proper  for  each  family,  because  the 
family  organization  is  distinct  from  every  other,  and  em- 
braces relations  and  feelings,  and  awakens  sympathies  and 
wants  peculiar  to  itself 

2.  Family  worship  is  a  duty  we  owe  to  society.  The 
family  is  the  primitive  social  compact ;  community  is  but  a 
larger  family  ;  and  how  is  society  at  large  to  be  governed 
if  the  primitive  social  organization  is  not  properly  influenced. 
Most  of  the  social  evils  that  exist  in  the  world — the  thefts 
and  slanders,  and  crimes  of  a  still  darker  character  by  which 
humanity  is  dishonored  and  wronged,  may  be  traced  to  de- 
fective education  in  general,  and  many  of  them,  we  believe, 
to  the  neglect  of  the  duty  we  are  now  advocating,  in  parti- 
cular. What  can  more  effectually  produce  in  the  minds  of 
the  young  the  spirit  of  subordination  to  established  laws,  than 
the  public  acknowledgment  on  the  part  of  the  parent,  every 
day,  of  the  right  of  God  to  govern  his  creatures.  And  when 
our  country,  our  rulers  and  the  world,  are  the  objects  of  pe- 
tition at  the  family  altar,  what  is  more  natural  than  that  the 
younger  members  of  such  a  family  should  be  impressed  with 
their  duty  as  citizens,  and  as  members  of  the  common 
brotherhood  of  mankind.  It  is  when  they  are  bending  before 
God,  and  the  prayers  of  a  father  are  poured  out  in  behalf  of 


356  REASONS    FOR    FAMILY    WORSHIP. 

t 

all  men,  that  they  discover  the  social  relation  they  sustain  to 
their  fellow  beings ;  it  is  here  they  learn  to  esteem  the  laws  of 
mutual  kindness  and  benevolence ;  and  regarding  themselves 
as  the  favored  objects  of  infinite  compassion,  are  prepared 
to  make  the  only  return  they  can,  by  performing  acts  of 
good  will  to  others,  dependent  like  themselves.  If  the  gov- 
ernment of  God  and  the  guilt  of  disobedience  to  Him  are  not 
thus  publicly  recognized  at  the  domestic  altar,  we  need  not 
wonder  tiiat  parental  authority  should  be  disregarded,  and, 
in  the  end,  the  laws  of  society  set  at  naught.  The  recogni- 
tion of  a  Supreme  Lawgiver,  who  has  not  only  the  right  to 
govern,  but  possesses  at  the  same  time  the  knowledge  of  all 
sin,  and  the  power  to  punish  the  offender,  and  whose  truth 
and  holiness  and  justice  require  that  such  punishment  should 
be  inflicted,  will  do  far  more  to  restrain  the  outbreakings  of 
human  passion  than  all  the  legislative  enactments  of  men. 
And  this  is  especially  the  case  when  such  a  recognition  is 
accompanied  by  feelings  of  reverence  and  love,  both  for  the 
lawgiver  and  the  rules  of  conduct  he  has  instituted.  The 
private  devotions  of  the  Christian  head  of  a  family  cannot  be 
equally  instrumental  in  producing  this  recognition  of  a  Su- 
preme Lawgiver  in  the  minds  of  his  children  and  other  mem- 
bers of  his  household,  and  the  respect  for  human  laws  natu- 
rally growing  out  of  it.  He  may  pray  to  God,  morning, 
noon  and  night  in  the  retirement  of  his  own  chamber,  or 
when  following  the  plough,  or  engaged  in  the  counting-room 
or  workshop,  and  though  all  the  members  of  the  family  may 
be  acquainted  with  the  fact,  it  cannot  impress  them  with  the 
same  views,  and  awaken  the  same  thoughts  and  purposes,  as 
if  they  were  to  hear  the  very  language  of  his  petitions.  It 
is  in  the  public  acknowledgment  of  the  divine  administration, 
and  the  duties  we  owe  to  our  fellovz-men,  that  heart  responds 
to  heart;  and  the  consecration  of  every  house  to  the  service 
of  God,  and  this  public  worship  in  every  family,  must  exert 
a  salutary  influence  in  preparing  each  rising  generation  to 
reverence  the  laws  and  institutions  of  society,  and  discharge 
the  obligations  they  owe  to  the  world. 


REASONS    FOR    FAMILY    WORSHIP.  357 

3.  Every  family  in  which  the  public  worship  of  God  has 
been  instituted,  and  is  regularly  performed  every  day,  is  "  a 
SCHOOL  OF  RELIGIOUS  INSTRUCTION,"  in  which  treasurcs  of 
knowledge  are  laid  up  for  future  use,  and  impressions  fixed 
upon  the  mind  that  are,  perhaps,  never  eradicated  in  subse- 
quent life.  The  great  lessons  of  evangelical  truth  are  daily 
presented  for  contemplation ;  and  it  may  be  questioned 
whether  such  a  system  of  daily  instruction  can  be  pursued 
without  resulting,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  favorably  to 
the  religious  views  and  moral  improvement  of  those  who  are 
brought  under  its  influence.  When  the  Sun  shines  in  its 
raid-day  splendor,  though  an  individual  may  close  his  eyes, 
he  cannot  shut  out  all  its  brightness.  Though  but  one  senti- 
ment out  of  many,  or  a  single  passage  in  a  whole  chapter 
should  attract  the  attention,  and  even  that  should  awaken 
at  the  time  but  a  momentary  thought,  it  may  be  revived 
again  in  after  years,  by  one  of  those  mysterious  laws  which 
govern  the  operations'of  the  human  mind  ;  and  though  only 
one  sentiment  or  passage  should  be  remembered  in  a  week, 
the  united  tendency  of  a  long  series  of  such  impressions  must 
be  to  enhghten  the  understanding  and  alarm  the  conscience, 
even  if  the  conduct  remains  uncontrolled.  It  is  the  office 
and  tendency  of  truth  to  throw  light  upon  the  mind,  nor  can 
this  tendency  be  wholly  resisted  if  the  mind  is  placed  where 
the  truth  can  act  upon  it.  Intervening  -clouds  may  prevent 
the  intensity  of  the  Sun's  rays,  but  they  cannot  hide  the  light 
of  day.  Prejudice  and  inattention  may  exclude  the  convert- 
ing power  of  the  gospel  from  the  soul,  but  they  cannot  shut 
out  from  the  mind  the  general  principles  of  the  Word  of 
God,  if  those  principles  are  daily  exhibited,  for  any  length  of 
time,  to  the  eye  or  the  ear. 

And  how  is  it  possible,  that  when  the  parent  offers  up  sup- 
pUcations  to  Heaven,  the  child  should  remain  unaffected  by 
a  sense  of  the  divine  existence  and  power,  and  its  own  de- 
pendence ?  What  can  produce  a  stronger  persuasion  of 
guilt  upon  the  mind  of  the  child,  than  to  hear  the  confession 
of  sin  falling  from  the  lips  of  a  parent  ?     And  when  the  eye 


358  REASONS    FOE    FAMILY    WORSHIP. 

of  parental  faith  rests  upon  the  "  Lamb  of  God,"  and  the 
voice  of  parental  affection  pleads  for  the  exercise  of  atoning 
and  reconciling  mercy,  the  hope  of  salvation  is,  perhaps, 
created  by  the  Holy  Spirit  through  this  instrumentality,  in 
the  heart  of  one  and  another  member  of  the  family,  who 
would  otherwise  remain  without  any  just  or  salutary  im- 
pression of  their  sinfulness  a;  d  danger. 

Remember,  too,  the  conc.tion  of  the  promise  given  to 
Abraham.  The  assurance  (Gen.  18  :  19,)  that  his  posterity 
should  become  a  great  and  mighty  nation,  was  based 
measureably  upon  this  ;  that  he  would  command  his  children 
and  his  household  after  him,  and  instruct  them  to  keep  the 
way  of  the  Lord,  and  "  do  justice  and  judgment."  There  is 
reason  to  suppose  that  these  instructions  were  accompanied 
by  devout  supplication,  and  that  they  constituted  oijly  a  part 
of  the  system  which  this  eminent  patriarch  had  instituted  in 
his  household,  and  practised  every  day.  The  same  concern 
for  their  spiritual  welfare  which  led  him  to  educate  them  in 
the  way  of  righteousness,  doubtless,  prompted  him  to  bow 
with  them  before  the  altar  of  his  God,  and  present  to  him 
their  spiritual  wants  in  importunate  prayer.  We  can  hardly 
imagine  a  case  of  faithful  religious  instruction,  unless  associa- 
ted with  this  holy  exercise. 

4.  We  have  also  the  most  eminent  examples  to  encou- 
rage AND  ENFORCE    THE  PERFORMANCE  of  thlS    duty.       To  that 

of  Abraham  we  have  just  referred.  And  we  are  told  that 
David  "returned  to  bless  his  house"  (Chron.  16:  43)  after 
he  had  brought  back  the  ark  of  God  to  Jerusalem.  He 
was  iiot  content  with  having  sacrificed  burnt-offerings  to  the 
Lord,  nor  was  he  satisfied  with  having  engaged  in  these  pub- 
lic services  in  which  the  whole  congregation  of  Israel  parti- 
cipated ;  but  after  these  solemnities  were  ended,  he  bowed 
with  his  family  before  the  throne  of  grace  in  supplication  and 
thanks. 

In  the  patriarchal  age  every  father  was  a  priest  in  his  own 
family.  He  offered  sacrifices  for  his  children  and  servants, 
and  all  the  members  of  his  household,  as  well  as  himself. 


REASONS    FOR    FAMILY    WORSHIP.  359 

And  it  was  not  until  after  the  departure  of  the  Israelites  from 
Egypt,  that  the  duties  of  the  priesthood  devolved  upon  a 
single  tribe.  But  yet,  even  after  God  established  this  regu- 
lation, to  secure,  perhaps,  greater  unity  of  worship,  and  im- 
part to  this  worship  a  national  character,  or  for  other  reasons, 
political  or  religious,  with  which  we  are  unacquainted,  the 
evident  principle  which  first  called  for  the  appointment  of 
every  father  as  a  priest  in  his  own  house,  remained  unal- 
tered ;  and  though  the  typical  sacrifices  were  offered  by  a 
distinct  order  of  men,  set  apart  for  this  purpose,  every  head 
of  a  family  was  still  obligated  to  present,  in  behalf  of  him- 
self and  his  household,  the  spiritual  offerings  of  the  heart. 

And  though  under  the  present  dispensation,  the  priesthood 
is  still  confined  to  a  class  of  persons,  solemnly  and  specially 
appointed  for  the  performance  of  its  duties,  this  cannot  annul 
the  original  obligation  of  every  father  to  be  a  priest  in  his 
own  house,  any  more  than  the  appointment  of  kings,  and 
governors,  and  legislators,  takes  from  him  the  right  of  being 
a  ruler  in  his  own  house.  Those  regulations  which  have 
originated  in  an  artificial  state  of  society,  can  never  set  aside 
the  natural  and  original  laws  instituted  for  family  goveni- 
ment ;  because  the  family  ever  has  beenj  and  in  the  nature 
of  the  cascj  ever  will  be,  in  a  veiy  great  measure  and  a  very 
important  sense,  independent  of  foreign  control ;  and  as  the 
father  can  never  be  entirely  deprived  of  the  rights  to  frame 
and  administer  laws  as  the  ruler  of  his  own  house,  neither 
can  he  be  absolved  from  those  peculiar  duties  of  the  priestly 
office  which  ought  to  be  performed  in  every  family,  and  can 
never  be  transferred  to  the  public  ministers  of  religion. 

"  I  am  now  an  old  fellow,"  says  Cowper,  in  one  of  his  let- 
ters, "  but  I  had  once  my  dancing  days,  as  you  have  now  ; 
yet  I  could  never  find  that  I  could  learn  half  so  much  of  a 
woman's  character  by  dancing  with  her,  as  conversing  with 
her  at  home,  when  I  could  observe  her  behavior  at  table,  or 
at  the  fire-side,  and  in  all  the  trying  scenes  of  domestic  life. 
We  are  all  good  when  pleased :  but  she  is  the  good  woman 
who  wants  not  the  fiddle  to  sweeten  her." 


360  MAGNOLIA    GRANDIFLOHA    AND    PIONY. 

Original. 

MAGNOLIA    GRANDIFLORA. 

See    Engravings. 

The  Magnolia  of  India  and  Arabia  is  of  a  beauteous  red 
color.  In  our  own  New  England  forests,  "in  the  depths  of 
the  desert's  gloom,"  it  is  a  pure  white ;  and  in  the  groves  of 
the  sweet  south,  it  is  adorned  with  a  rich  yellow  tint.  Sweet 
flowret !  thou  hast  a  queenly  look,  and  from  thy  soft  bosom 
a  delightful  fragrance  is  exhaled.  Lovely  emblem  of  the 
union  of  beauty  and  virtue  ! 

PIONY. 

The  Creator  has  laid  on  thee  a  flaming  color,  with  a  lavish 
hand,  and  given  thee  no  stint  of  leaves.  As  in  all  his  works, 
he  seems  to  delight  in  variety,  especially  in  the  floral  king- 
dom. Hence  some  flowers  are  characterised  by  simplicity, 
others  by  diversity  of  coloring  and  complexity  of  form  ; 
some  seem  almost  as  naked  and  defenceless  as  the  unfledged 
sparrow,  while  others  are  walled  around  with  defences, 
overloaded  with  leaves,  layer  piled  on  layer,  until  the  strong 
stem  is  bent  to  the  ground,  and  the  pride  of  the  gaudy  flower 
laid  in  the  dust.  In  all  Flora's  dominions  there  is  not  a 
more  gaudy  looking  object  than  the  Piony,  unless  it  be  the 
Sun-flower.  Struck  with  its  imposing  beauty,  our  disap- 
pointment is  proportionably  great  when  we  find  it  wholly 
destitute  of  fragrance.  So  have  we  seen  a  gay  young  lady 
decking  herself  with  ornaments  to  hide  those  defects  which, 
when  discovered,  as  they  will  be,  cannot  fail  to  excite  dis- 
gust. The  rose,  though  in  a  state  of  decay,  still  retains  its 
fragrance ;  so  when  beauty  fades,  the  virtues  of  the  mind 
will  shed  an  undying  fragrance. 


SATURDAY    NIGHT.  361 

O  r  Iglnal.  « 

SATURDAY    NIGHT. 

BY      MISS      J.      SKERRITT. 

Many  are  the  associations  which  crowd  upon  the  mind  of 
almost  every  class  of  persons  on  Saturday  night.  The 
laborer,  the  professional  man,  and  the  christian,  all  hail  its 
{^proach  with  delight.  The  christian  rejoices  and  thinks 
that  it  is  but  the  prelude  to  that  heavenly  rest,  where  dwell 
spirits  of  ethereal  brightness,  who  have  long  ceased  from 
their  labors,  who  have  been  ransomed  from  the  thraldom  of 
Earth,  and  are  now  enjoying  happiness  pure  and  unalloyed. 

Such  are  the  vicissitudes  of  life  that  man  needs  a  period 
of  repose,  and  it  is  then  that  all  mankind  in  this  enlightened 
affe  cease  from  their  labor.  The  anxieties  and  cares  of  the 
world  are  in  a  great  measure  forgotten  ;  the  tired  frame 
seeks  repose,  and  the  mind  its  relaxations  from  Earth  and 
its  concerns,  with  joy  to  hallow  the  day  which  our  Creator 
has  so  wisely  ordered  should  be  remembered  and  kept  holy. 

The  weary  laborer  seeks  now  the  cheerful  fireside  by 
which  he  may  spend  an  hour  in  the  company  of  his  much 
loved  family,  where  he  can  listen  to  the  innocent  prattle  of 
his  children  as  they  cluster  around  him, — and  delights  to 
become  at  once  their  guide  and  counsellor,  to  instruct  them 
in  their  several  lessons  for  the  Sabbath  School.  The  Bible 
is  then  read — and  incense  is  burned  upon  the  family  altar  to 
the  great  and  mighty  Jehovah,  in  humble  accents  of  praise 
and  thanksgiving  for  the  benefits  he  has  received  during  the 
past  week,  and  the  privileges  he  enjoys  of  imploring  a  bless- 
ing on  the  engagements  of  the  sacred  day  before  him. 

With  what  pleasure  does  the  lonely  widow  greet  the  ap- 
proach of  Saturday  night?  She  may  have  toiled  during  the 
week  for  the  support  of  her  little  ones,  and  on  Saturday 
night,  when  sitting  by  her  fireside,  witnesses  her   labors 


362  SATURDAY    NIGHT. 

ended ;  the  blessings  and  comforts  thus  obtained  for  the 
helpless  innocents,  who  surround  her;  and  if  a  christian 
pours  ou4  praises  from  her  heart  overflowing  with  gratitude 
to  that  God  who  has  provided  her  with  kind  resting  places, 
which  to  her  are  as  cheering  as  it  would  be  for  a  traveller 
in  a  lone  desert  to  meet  with  an  oasis,  or  some  verdant  spot 
where  he  might  rest  his  weary  limbs. 

The  professional  man,  too,  is  released  from  the  busy  cares 
which  attend  him  during  the  week,  in  his  public  capacity. 
He  beholds  the  return  of  Saturday  night  as  a  token  that  he 
can  spend  a  season  without  the  continued  interruption  which 
must  necessarily  attend  his  profession.  And  he,  too,  can 
join  in  the  general  chorus  of  adoration  ascending  to  the 
throne  of  God. 

It  was  night — Saturday  night.  Jerusalem  slept  quietly, 
and  the  fierce  passions  of  men  were  hushed  in  sleep.  But 
amid  the  calmness  of  the  midnight  hour,  the  solitary  pacings 
of  the  sentinels  brokje  the  stillness  of  the  scene,  as  they  went 
to  and  from  the  sepulchre.  Angels  winged  the  stilly  air — 
the  breasts  of  the  disciples  beat  high  in  expectation  of  the 
morrow's  dawn.  The  transactions  of  the  past  week  hurried 
in  review  before  them.  They  saw  their  Lord  and  Master 
seized  and  bound  by  the  clamorous  mob,  dragged  before 
Pilate's  bar — scourged  and  crucified  between  two  thieves. 
They  behold  again  that  brow  whereon  was  impress  of 
divinity,  encircled  by  a  crown  of  thorns.  Once  more  they 
watched  that  God-like  face,  and  wept  to  see  that  form 
which  awed  diseases,  and  even  death  yields  at  last  to  that 
pale  king.  They  then  saw  the  heavings  of  nature's  sorrow- 
ing breast,  and  as  they  looked,  their  minds  were  agitated 
with  hope  and  fear,  doubt  and  faith ;  and  when  just  sinking 
beneath  the  weight  of  grief,  they  behold  two  angels  of  ethe- 
real brightness — twin  sisters — hovering  in  their  fancy's  sight 
— Hope  and  Faith.  Hope  dispelled  the  fears  that  pervaded 
their  minds,  and  whispered,  Christ  will  rise.  Faith  bid  them 
mount  sublimely  on  the  wings  of  love,  and  view  the  glories 
of  their  Lord,  as  on  the  morrow's  dawn,  he  burst  the  bonds 


earth's  visions.  363 

of  death,  ascending  to  his  Empyrean  throne.  And  while 
gazing  thus,  they  were  comforted  with  ever  blooming  Hope 
and  all  triumphant  Faith  ;  and  never  had  the  shades  of 
evening  ushered  in  a  more  auspicious  time  than  was^  that 
Saturday  night. 


Original. 

EARTH'S    VISIONS 


There  is  mirth  in  the  festal  hall  to-night, 
On  the  brow  of  beauty  a  dazzling  light. 
Gems  and  diamonds  are  sparkling  there. 
As  if  concealing  each  thought  of  care. 
But  say,  'mid  the  dance — or  the  giddy  throng, 
Can  the  gayest  scene  or  the  loudest  song. 
Dispel  the  thought  of  the  parting  breath. 
When  the  conscious  heart  shall  chill  in  death  ? 


Ite 


Many  a  form  is  prostrate  now, 
With  the  dew  of  death  upon  the  brow, 
Bidding  farewell  to  the  scenes  of  Earth, 
Hear  ye  it  not — 'mid  the  strains  of  mirth  ? 
Youth  and  beauty  whose  visions  of  light 
Are  fading  away  from  the  fading  sight. 
Are  struggling  now  in  the  last  -sad  strife, 
Now  yielding  the  latest  throb  of  life  ! 

Oh,  how  discordant  the  scenes  of  Earth  ! 
The  wailing  of  death,  and  the  tones  of  mirtli ! 
I  have  heard  them  when  joy  could  bear  no  part 
With  the  grief  of  a  mourning — a  stricken  heart. 
I  ask  not  that  pleasure  should  have  no  share 
In  life's  short  drama  of  toil  and  care, 
But  oh,  let  it  be  so  pure,  so  sweet, 
That  it  STARTS  not  the  tyrant  Death  to  meet. 


364  DEATH. 


DEATH. 


Death,  to  the  immortal  soul !  What  a  moment  must  be  that 
when  the  last  flutter  expires  on  our  lips  !  What  a  change  ' 
Tell  me,  who  are  deepest  read  in  nature  and  in  God,  to  what 
new  worlds  are  we  borne?  What  new  being  do  we  receive  ? 
Whither  has  that  spark,  that  unseen,  that  uncomprehended  in- 
telligence fled?  Look  upon  that  cold,  livid,  ghastly  corse  that 
lies  before  you  !  That  was  but  a  shell,  a  gross  and  earthly 
covering,  which  held  for  a  while  the  immortal  essence  that 
has  now  left  it — left,  to  range,  perhaps,  through  illimiiable 
space  ;  to  receive  new  capacities  of  delight,  new  powers  of 
perception,  new  glories  of  beatitude  !  Ten  thousand  fancies 
rush  upon  the  mind  as  it  contemplates  the  awful  moment 
between  life  and  death  !  It  is  a  moment  big  with  imagina- 
tion's greatest  hopes  and  fears  ;  it  is  the  consummation  that 
clears  up  all  mystery — resolves  all  doubts — which  removes 
contradiction,  and  destroys  error.  Great  God  !  what  a  flood 
of  rapture  may  at  once  burst  upon  the  departed  soul !  The 
unclouded  brightness  of  the  celestial  regions — the  pure  ex- 
istence of  ethereal  being — the  solemn  secrets  of  nature  may 
then  be  divulged ;  the  immediate  unity  of  the  past,  the  pre- 
sent, and  the  future  ;  strains  of  unimaginable  harmony,  forms 
of  imperishable  beauty,  may  suddenly  disclose  themselves, 
bursting  upon  the  delighted  senses,  and  bathing  them  in 
measureless  bliss.  The  mind  is  lost  in  this  excess  of  won- 
drous light,  and  dares  not  turn  from  the  heavenly  vision  to 
one  so  gloomy,  so  tremendous  as  the  departure  of  the 
wicked  !     Human  fancy  shrinks  back  appalled. 

A    DEATH-BED. 

A  death  bed  is  a  wonderful  reasoner  ;  many  a  proud  in- 
fidel hath  it  humbled  and  refuted  without  a  word,  who,  but 
for  a  short  time  before,  would  have  defied  all  the  ability  of 
man  to  shake  the  foundation  of  his  system.  All  is  well,  as 
long  as  the  curtain  is  up,  and  the  puppet  show  of  life  goes 
on  ;  but  when  the  rapid  representation  draws  to  a  close,  and 
every  hope  of  a  longer  respite  is  precluded,  things  will  ap- 
pear in  a  very  different  light.  Would  to  God  I  could  say, 
that  that  awful  moment  was  as  often  distinguished  by  the 
dew  of  repentance,  as  by  the  groan  of  despair. 


':mw^^^^j^      >^?%7^^ 


:&^  -^^^p^ 


\r 


.•"i^" 


A'/iarav^c^  <j^//v 


MOURNING    APPAREL. 

BYTHEEDITOR. 

Truly  times  have  changed.  A  few  years  since,  the  com- 
mon, time-honored  custom  of  putting  on  mourning  apparel, 
at  the  decease  of  friends,  wds  extensively  discussed,  and  an 
important  change  effected  in  the  views  and  practice  of  many. 
A  custom,  so  universally  prevalent,  the  propriety  of  which 
no  one  thought  of  disputing,  and  the  foundation  few  had 
thoroughly  examined,  had  acquired  all  the  force  of  law,  and 
many  imagined,  that  in  putting  on  the  sable  attire,  they  did 
but  obey  the  law  of  nature,  if  they  did  not  fulfil  a  divine  re- 
quirement. True,  the  Hebrews,  at  the  death  of  their  near 
relations  and  friends,  expressed  their  grief  and  sorrow  by 
certain  signs  and  symbols.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the 
different  nations  of  the  Earth,  ancient  and  modern.  The 
mourning  habit  among  the  Hebrews  was  not  fixed  by  law 
or  custom.  No  where  in  the  Word  of  God,  we  believe,  can 
we  find  that  this  has  been  made  a  subject  of  divine  legislation  ; 
but  mankind  have  been  left  to  follow  the  dictates  of  their 
own  judgment  and  the  promptings  of  affection ;  in  doing 
which  they  have  imbibed  some  cruel  and  superstitious  no- 
tions, and  imposed  upon  themselves  unnecessary  and  often 
oppressive  burdens. 

If  is  believed,  that  the  custom  of  putting  on  mourning 
apparel  as  a  badge  of  sorrow  and  affliction  is  fast  going  out 
of  use,  and  that  it  will,  ere  long,  become  obsolete.  Various 
reasons  may  be  offered  why  Christians  should  discountenance 
the  custom  altogether. 

"  In  Europe,  black  is  generally  used,  because  it  represents 
darkness,  unto  which  death  is  like  as  it  is  a  privation  of  hfe. 

VOL.    VL    NO.    11. 


370  MOURNING    APPAREL. 

In  China,  white  is  used,  because  they  hope  the  dead  are  in 
Heaven,  the  place  of  purity.  In  Egypt,  yellow  is  used,  be- 
cause it  represents  the  decaying  of  flowers  and  trees,  which 
become  yellow  as  they  decay.  In  Ethiopia,  brown  is  used, 
because  it  denotes  the  color  of  the  earth  from  whence  we 
came,  and  to  which  we  return.  In  some  parts  of  Turkey, 
blue  is  used,  because  it  represents  the  sky,  where  they  hope 
the  dead  one  is  gone ;  but  in  others  blue  and  violet,  because 
being  a  mixture  of  black  and  blue,  it  represents,  as  it  were, 
sorrow  on  the  one  side,  and  hope  on  the  other." 

1.  It  means  nothing  and  answers  no  valuable  purpose.  It 
is  no  certain  index  to  the  state  6f  the  mind.  To  see  a  whole 
family  clothed  with  black,  one  must  infer  that  they  are  all 
true  mourners,  needing  consolation.  But  what  is  truth  in  a 
majority  of  cases.  Pope  speaks  of  those  who  bear  about 
the  mockery  of  woe 

"  To  midnight  dances  and  the  public  show." 

And,  alas  !  mourning  apparel  is  but  too  often  "  the  mockery 
of  woe." 

2.  There  is  reason  to  fear  that,  in  too  many  instances, 
*'the  putting  on  of  mourning,"  is  placed  as  a  substitute  for 
duties  of  high  and  solemn  import,  such  as  submission  to  the 
divine  will,  and  prayer  for  renewing  and  sustaining  grace. 
Long  before  the  first  mourning  is  put  off,  the  dead  are  often 
forgotten,  so  that  the  second  is  but  an  empty  ceremony. 

3.  The  custom  has  a  tendency  to  divert  the' mind  from 
those  thoughts  and  exercises  which  the  afflicted  should  foster 
and  cherish.  The  selection  and  making  up  of  materials  into 
suitable  dresses,  consultation  with  tailors,  milliners,  and 
mantua-makers,  occupy  that  time  which  should  be  spent  in 
devout  meditation  and  solemn  preparation  for  the  funeral 
rites. 

4.  The  great  expense  incurred  in  providing  mourning 
apparel  is  a  consideration  of  weight  which  ought  not  to  be 
overlooked.  The  clothing  of'  a  whole  family  in  new  gar- 
ments, is  no  trifling  affair.     The  rich  make  no  account  of  it ; 


MOURNING    APPAREL.  371 

to  those  in  moderate  circumstances,  it  is  a  serious  tax  ;  while 
to  the  poor  it  is  an  oppressive  and  grievous  burden. 

5.  In  many  instances,  providing  mourning  apparel  is  a 
prodigal  waste  of  money.  Many  families  are  abundantly 
supplied  with  plothing  ;  the  wardrobe  is  filled  with  super- 
fluous garments,  and  soon  the  mourning  apparel  will  be 
laid  aside,  so  that  it  is  the  same  as  money  thrown  away. 
An  estimate  made  of  the  amount  expended  in  purchasing 
mourning  apparel  would  astonish  the  community ;  and  what 
is  there  in  the  good  moral  influence  arising  from  this  custom 
to  balance  this  vast  expenditure  ?  And  this  subject  assumes 
a  still  more  melancholy  aspect,  when  we  consider  what  an 
immense  amount  of  good  might  be  done  if  the  money  need- 
lessly spent  in  those  habiliments  was  thrown  into  the  gospel 
treasury. 

Lastly.  These  external  badges  of  woe  do  not  correspond 
with  the  .good  tidings  and  revealed  glories  of  the  Gospel. 
In  this  light,  except  it  be  perverted,  death  is  no  longer  the 
king  of  terrors,  nor  the  grave  the  end  of  hope.  Why  then, 
when  death  comes  to  a  family,  should  all  its  inmates  be 
dressed  in  what  are  termed  the  habiliments  of  woe  ?  Sup- 
pose the  deceased  impenitent — God  is  still  on  the  throne, 
and  to  those  who  are  left  the  sceptre  of  mercy  is  extended. 


THE    HOUR   GLASS. 

Coming  hastily  into  a  chamber,  I  had  almost  thrown  down 
a  chrystal  hour-glass :  fear,  lest  I  had,  made  me  grieve,  as  if 
I  had  broken  it ;  but,  alas  !  how  much  precious  time  have  I 
cast  away  without  any  regret !  The  hour-glass  was  but 
chrystal,  each  hour  a  pearl ;  that  but  like  to  be  broken,  this 
lost  outright ;  that  but  casually,  this  done  wilfully.  A  better 
hour-glass  might  be  bought ;  but  time,  lost  once,  lost  ever. 
Thus  we  grieve  more  for  toys  than  for  treasure.  Lord,  give 
me  an  hour-glass,  not  to  be  by  me,  but  to  be  in  me.     Teach 

ME  TO  NUMBER  MY  DAYS.       Ah    hour-glaSS,  tO    tUlU    me,  THAT  I 
MAY  TURN  MY  HEART  TO  WISDOM. 


372  iNDEcisroN. 

Original. 

INDECISION, 

-       OR    THE   TWO    COUSINS. 

BY      MRS.      ELIZABETH      RICORD. 

The  celebrated  Pope  has  said  with  the  caustic  humour 
that  distinsruishes  his  satires,  "most  women  have  no  charac- 
ter at  ail."  This  sarcasm,  ill-natured  as  it  is,  we  are  in 
some  cases  almost  inclined  to  admit.  There  are  persons — 
not  indeed  always  found  among  the  female  sex,  whose  opin- 
ions, feelings  and  actions  vary,  as  do  the  colors  of  the 
chamelion,  by  contact  with  changing  objects.  With  the  gay 
and  worldly  they  are  full  of  levity  and  fond  of  fashion — with 
the  grave  and  pious  they  profess  to  despise  the  things  of  the 
world,  talk  of  sermons,  and  seem  to  take  pleasure  in  religious 
duties.  With  the  intellectual,  they  become  suddenly  fond  of 
literature,  and  betake  themselves  to  reading — with  the  con- 
trary class,  they  declare  study  tiresome,  and  ridicule  the 
learned  as  pedants.  They,  in  fine,  belong  to  whatever  party 
— whether  in  religion  or  politics,  or  any  other  thing,  with 
which  they  happen  to  be  associated.  Such  persons  may 
truly  be  said  to  have  no  character,  they  belong  not  to  them- 
selves, but  to  whatever  thing  or  circumstance  may  happen 
to  seize  them.  They  have  no  will  of  their  own — they  move 
as  others  around  them  move,  decide  as  they  decide, — their 
opinions  belong  to  the  last  speaker — their  actions  to  the  last 
adviser. 

The  purposes  of  these  no  character  persons  are  as  vary- 
ing as  clouds  in  the  summer  sky,  and  as  well  might  we  hope 
to  receive  lasting  enjoyment  from  the  colours  of  the  rain- 
bow, as  lasting  happiness  with  one  of  so  vacillating  a  mind. 
As  well  might  one  cast  his  wealth  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
ocean,  and  expect  that  the  billows  would  bring  it  to  the  de- 
sired port,  as  that  so  unstable  a  disposition  would  carry  out 
any  useful  design  to  its  accomplishment. 


INDECISION.  373 

Instances  of  this  temperament  are  seen  in  young  persons 
who  commence  a  book,  a  branch  of  study,  or  a  piece  of 
work,  and  soon  put  it  by  for  some  other  occupation.  The 
book  is  declared  to  be  uninteresting,  the  study  tiresome,  and 
the  work  useless ;  so  that  nothing  is  done,  for  if  other  things 
are  recommenced,  they  are-  thrown  aside  for  the  same  or 
other  reasons.  This  habit  of  mind  is  strengthened  by  exer- 
cise, and  like  many  other  habits,  becomes  a  decided  enjoy- 
ment. 

But  this  vacillating  disposition  frequently  leads  to  conse- 
quences the  most  disastrous,  for  it  destroys  whatever  there 
may  be  of  healthy  action  in  the  moral  constitution  ;  render- 
ing the  person  weak  in  good  purpose — cowardly  in  virtuous 
action — ever  false  to  himself  and  to  others. 

The  following  sketch  illustrative  of  indecision  in  one  in- 
stance, and  decision  in  the  other,  is  found  among  the  remin- 
iscences of  the  past,  and  not  unfamiliar  with  the  experience 
of  many  a  young  person. 

Sarah  Weston  and  Mary  Lacy  were  cousins,  and  strongly 
attached  to  each  other  from  infancy.  Together  they  left 
home  for  the  purpose  of  receiving,  at  a  distance,  the  advan- 
tage of  instruction  in  a  celebrated  school.  With  emotions 
of  joy,  while  bestowing  the  parting  advice  and  embraces 
upon  tier  daughter,  Mrs.  Weston  listened  to  the  sincere  as- 
surances of  the  young  girl,  that  she  would  neglect  nothing 
which  might  forward  the  progress  of  her  education,  and  thus 
qualify  herself  for  the  useful  employment  of  teaching,  that 
she  might  speedily  assist  her  mother,  who  in  her  limited  cir- 
cumstances, could  not  otherwise  have  consented  to  the 
expense  of  such  an  education. 

High,  and  as  Sarah  thought,  firm  resolves,  served  to  dry  the 
tears  which  the  last  look  at  home  had  called  from  her  eyes  fill- 
ing her  mind  with  pleasing  reveries.  The  pleasure  to  be  de- 
rived from  the  knowledge  of  those  sciences  of  which  she 
knew  little  more  than  the  names;  the  applause  attached  to  the 
reputation  of  an  educated  woman,  the  satisfaction  her  dear 
mother  would  find  in  her  improvement,  with  the  prospect  of 


874  INDECISIOIT. 

being  able  to  assist  in  helping  out  her  scanty  income.  These 
and  many  other  like  thoughts  passed  in  rapid  succession, 
while  Sarah  resolved  again  and  again  that  nothing  should, 
for  an  hour,  divert  her  from  her  studies.  These  resolutions 
«he  loudly  and  exultingly  repeated  to  her  cousin  who  sat 
beside  her.     The  quiet  Mary  smiled  but  made  no  promises. 

As  they  approached  the  place  of  destination,  the  spirits  of 
Sarah  Weston,  which  like  an  unsteady  flame  that  rises  and 
falls  as  the  wind  passes  over  it,  began  to  sink.  How  could 
she  have  had  courage  sufficient  to  leave  the  abode  of  her 
dear  mother,  for  the  habitation  of  strangers  ?  How  might 
her  future  companions  regard  her?  Would  she  be  able  to 
compete  with  them  ?  Should  she,  after  all,  ever  be  qualified 
to  teach  ?  These  reflections  produced  a  moody  silence,  for 
she  was  ashamed  to  give  them  utterance  in  the  presence  of 
her  cheerful  cousin. 

They  arrived  at  the  school  and  strangers  met  them,  but 
they  were  received  with  kindness — even  affectionate  atten- 
tion. The  spirits  of  the  young  girl  were  lightened  to  gaiety. 
Upon  her  entrance  the  next  morning  in  the  school  rooms  her 
ardor  knew  no  bounds.  Forgetting  how  very  imperfect  she 
was  in"  the  primary  branches,  she  would  gladly  have  entered 
her  name  in  the  highest  classes.  This  ardor  was  an  induce- 
ment to  allow  her  more  than  the  usual  number  of  studies, 
and  Sarah  sat  down  at  her  little  table  v/ith  plenty  of  business 
on  her  hands. 

Great  was  the  delight  and  pride  with  which  she  first 
arranged  in  perfect  order  piles  of  well  bound  volumes 
around  her,  and  she  meditated  upon  their  little  pages  with 
much  satisfaction,  marking  out  her  lessons  with  a  sort  of 
triumph.  But  then  came  the  drudgery  of  study,  so  different 
from  its  contemplation — toiling  from  morning's  early  light, 
now  listening  to  preceptors,  now  questioned  by  them^ — long 
hours  of  wearisome  study,  and  after  all  her  labor,  imperfect 
recitations — how  discouraging !  At  such  times  the  thought 
of  home  and  its  freedom,  green  fields,  charming  walks,  favor- 
ite associates,  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  Sarah  Westoii. 


INDECISION.  375 

Then  came  head-ache,  and  the  long  train  of  nervous  symp- 
toms— then  relaxation  from  study  and  the  quiet  of  a  chamber 
were  prescribed.  In  the  meantime  the  classes  progressed, 
and  the  poor  girl  had  double  labor  in  her  languid  endeavors 
to  overtake  them. 

The  quiet  and  unwavering  Mary  Lacy  was  never  turned 
aside  by  the  idle  fancies  of  a  feeble  mind.  She  indulged 
neither  in  the  wild  imaginings  as  to  the  future,  nor  the  use- 
less regrets  for  the  past,  that  alternately  exalted  and  de- 
pressed the  spirits  of  her  variable  cousin,  but  steadily  and 
courageously  pressed  forward  in  the  course  marked  out  by 
her  instructors.  Thus  did  she  maintain  her  standing  as  a 
pupil,  gaining  the  respect  of  her  companions,  and  the  appro- 
bation of  all. 

This  weakness  of  Sarah  Weston  acted  with  demoralizing 
effect  upon  her  mind.  "  How,"  said  the  bright  and  showy 
Julia  to  her,  "  are  you  in  the  Geography  class  ?  that  is  a 
study  for  little  girls.  I  have  done  with  it  long  ago."  Sarah 
was  after  this  afflicted  with  head-ache  whenever  the  under- 
valued class  was  called. 

"  Why  do  you  not  learn  music  ?  Miss  Weston,"  said  a 
fashionable  class-mate,  "no  young  lady  can  get  on  in  genteel 
society  without  it."  Sarah  colored  and  was  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  that  her  mother  could  not  afford  it.  She  stam- 
mered out  a  falsehood  by  way  of  excuse,  and  thenceforth 
all  solid  study  became  to  her  insipid  and  vulgar. 

"  How  can  you  walk  with  Jane  Wiley  ?  her  father  is  a 
mechanic,  and  she  is  awkward,  and  besides  dresses  very 
unfashionably."  Sarah  had  liked  the  good  humour  of  this 
plain  girl,  and  in  their  walks  frequently  selected  her  as  a 
companion,  but  now  finding  it  disgraceful  to  be  seen  as  her 
intimate,  she  avoided  the  society,  and  hurt  the  feelings  of  one 
who  had  shown  her  unvaried  kindness.  Besides,  having 
learned  that  labor  in  an  honest  calling  was  disreputable  in 
the  higher — rather  the  fashionable  classes  of  society,  Sarah 
disclaimed  whenever  enquiry  was  made,  all  intention  to 
become  a  teacher. 


376  INDECISION. 

Thus  did  the  irasteady,  the  weak  minded  Sarah  Weston 
lose  her  opportunities  for  improvement — waste  her  time^ — 
sully  her  moral  character,  and  impair  her  respectability. 
She  moreover  diminished  the  scanty  income  of  her  fond  and 
pious  mother,  who  saw  with  pained  affection  the  frustration 
of  plans,  laid  in  prudence  for  the  future  wel^fare  of  her 
daughter. 

Mary  Lacy  on  the  contrary  continued  in  an  unvaried 
course  of  persevering  industry.  Not  one  of  her  companions 
sought  to  turn  her  from  the  pursuit  of  knowledge^or  from 
the  course  of  honorable  and  moral  action,  for  her  words,  her 
conduct,  and  even  the  mild  tones  of  her  voice,  marked  de- 
cision. This  in  her  never  became  obstinacy  ;  she  was  gen- 
tle and  affectionate,  and  even  yielding ;  for  whenever  a  con- 
scientious discharge  of  duty  did  not  oppose,  Mary  gave  up 
selfish  considerations  to  the  feelings  or  interest  of  others. 
But  when  duty  pointed  out  a  particular  course,  she,  like  the 
Roman  Fabricius,  was  as  constant  as  the  Sun  in  the  path  to 
be  pursued. 

Sarah  in  future  life  became  a  slave  to  the  world ;  its  opin- 
ions and  customs  held  dominion  over  her  soul.  Dark, 
uncomfortable  and  uncertain  was  her  path,  and"  after  ally 
unapproved  by  the  world,  of  whose  opinions  she  thought  so 
much;  for,. like  the  Moon,  the  world  is  constant  in  nothing' 
but  its  changes,  and  well  has  Divine  Truth  put  the  love  of 
it  in  opposition  to  the  love  of  Him  who  is  unchangeable^ 
But  Mary  rested  her  soul  upon  God,  and  though  in  herself 
feeble  as  the  meadow  reed,  in  Him  she  grew  strong  an(J 
vigorous  in  virtue.  Like  the  Sun  advancing  to  meridian' 
splendor,  her  path  shone  brighter  and  brighter  unto  the  per- 
fect day. 

It  is  oftentimes  the  judgment  of  God  upon  greedy  rich 
men,  that  he  suffers  them  to  push  on  their  desires  of  wealth 
to  the  excess  of  over-reaching,  grinding,  or  oppression,  which 
poisons  all  they  have  gotten  ;  so  that  it  commonly  runs  away 
as  fast  and  by  as  bad  ways,  as  it  was  heaped  up  together. 


TH£  GERMAN    BOT.  8T7 


THE    GERMAN   BOY. 


BY     MRS.     E.     A.     COM9TOCK. 

She  comes — the  noble  ship  f  upon  her  deck 
Fond  hearts  are  yearning  kindred  hearts  to  meet ; 

Warm  tears  of  rapture  there  receive  no  check, 
As  well  known  scenes  these  weary  pilgrims  greet 

Young  heads  are  bowed  in  reverential  j)rayer, 
•  For  those  who  sadly  sped  their  parting  feet; 

And  that  dear  fireside — shall  they  find  them  there. 
Or  seek  them  in  the  church-yard's  lone  retreat  ? 

But  hearts  more  sanguine  fling  all  fear  away, 

And  cull  a  garland  of  resplendent  hues ; 
Ah,  when  beneath  the  truth  these  wreaths  decay. 

Such  hearts  the  longest  will  all  aid  refuse  ; 
Enough  for  them  the  present,  hallowed  joy ; 

They  see,  they  near,  their  own,  their  native  strand. 
Why  flow  THY  tears,  thou  lonely  German  Boy  ? 

Yon  speck  is  not  thy  own,  thy  fatherland. 

Thou  hast  not  roved  in  curious  pilgrimage, 

Amid  the  ruins  of  those  southern  climes. 
That  leave  their  impress  on  historic  page. 

Stained  with  the  dark  tints  of  their  loathsome  crimes. 
The  fiat  that  went  forth  to  Adam's  race. 

And  drove  him  from  his  blissful  Eden  home. 
Is  graven  on  thy  youthful,  sunburnt  face. 

But  tyrant  man,  not  angels,  bids  thee  roam. 

No  mother  waits  thee  on  the  coming  shore — 

No  sisters  longing  for  thy  dear  embrace : 
The  mother  thou  shalt  see  on  Karth  no  more. 

Sleeps  with  thy  dead  and  thy  down-trodden  race. 
Jfo  sunny  hearth  awaits  thee  with  its  smile  ; 

Thou  com'st  not  there  with  many  a  witching  tale, 
The  tedious  winter  evenings  to  beguile. 

Till  cheeks  of  kindred  turn  with  interest  pale. 


378  THE    GERMAN    BOY. 

These  are  not  thine — but  toil,  and  bitter  tears. 

Thy  youthful  heart  and  vigor  may  destroy, 
Or  vice  may  grapple  till  it  wholly  sears, 

The  noble  spirit  of  the  German  Boy. 
I^ne  on  that  deck,  without  one  human  tie, 

With  hardy  hand  upon  the  bulwark  laid. 
With  tearful  eyes  bent  on  our  foreign  sky — 

Say,  is  thy  spirit  strong  and  undismayed  ? 

Cheer  up,  the  heaving  of  that  vigorous  breast. 
Answers  the  dark  forebodings  of  mine  own. 

Our  forest  home  is  fair,  be  not  distressed. 

And  there  are  some  to  whom  thy  speech  is  known. 

Mid  fertile  vales  where  clust'ring  grape-vines  grow, 
%^'  Thy  cottage  yet  may  nestle  from  the  storm. 

Domestic  love  thy  throbbing  heart  shall  know. 
And  wife  and  children  clasp  thy  manly  form. 

No  despot's  foot  shall  grind  thee  to  the  soil. 

No  tribute  to  his  storehouse  shalt  thou  bring. 
But  on  the  land  that  thrives  beneath  thy  toil. 

In  nature's  majesty,  thou  art  a  kmg. 
O  may  the  light  of  happy  life  be  thine. 

And  thine  to  deeply  quafT  the  cup  of  joy. 
And  may  this  generous  mother  land  of  mine. 

Give  love  and  freedom  to  the  German  Boy. 


A    GOOD    DAUGHTER. 

A  GOOD  daughter  !  There  are  other  ministers  of  love  more 
conspicuous  than  her,  but  none  in  which  a  gentler,  lovelier 
spirit  dwells,  and  none  to  which  her  heart's  warm  requitals 
more  joyfully  respond.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  comp^- 
ative  estimate  of  a  parent's  love  for  one  or  another  child. 
There  is  little  which  he  needs  to  covet,  to  whom  the  treasure 
of  a  good  child  has  been  given.  But  a  son's  occupation  and 
pleasures  carry  him  abroad,  and  he  resides  more  among 
temptations,  which  hardly  permit  affection  that  is  following 
him,  perhaps,  over  half  the  globe,  to  be  unmingled  with  anxi- 
ety, until  the  time  when  he  comes  to  relinquish  the  shelter 
of  his  father's  roof  for  one  of  his  own ;  while  a  good  daugh- 
ter is  the  steady  light  of  her  parent's  house. 


A    BROTHER    INDEED.  379 

O  r  igina,!. 

A  BROTHER  INDEED,  AND  A  BROTHER  IN  NEED. 

BY    REV.    S.    I.     PRIME. 

In  the  year  1801,  a  gentleman  in  England  dying  without  a 
win,  his  large  property,  according  to  the  unwise  and  unjust 
laws  of  that  country,  descended  to  his  eldest  son.  There 
were  eight  younger  children,  who  were  consequently  left 
without  any  provision  for  their  support.  The  elder  brother 
immediately  set  off  a  large  portion  of  his  property,  and  by 
the  necessary  legal  steps,  secured  it  to  his  brothers  and 
sisters. 

A  similar  act  was  performed  in  this  city  a  few  years  ago, 
and  the  parties  are  yet  living  among  us.  A  gentleman  of 
great  wealth  chose  to  leave  his  property  by  will  to  his  oldest 
son.  having  full  confidence  in  him,  that  he  would  make  suita- 
ble provision  for  the  remainder  of  the  fomily.  The  son  im- 
mediately settled  a  fortune  upon  each  one  of  the  family,  and 
shared  with  them  in  all  the  enjoyments  of  the  estate,  as  if  the 
father  were  still  living. 

Doubtless,  there  are  numerous  instances  of  this  character, 
though  they  may  not  have  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the 
world,  and  the  cases  of  an  opposite  character  are  those 
which  are  more  frequently  mentioned.  Often  we  meet  with 
instances  like  the  one  I  am  about  to  relate.     In  the  town  of 

B ,  in  the  northern  part  of  the  State  of ,  lives  a  man 

on  whom  the  sun  of  prosperity  has  been  shining  from  his 
youth  to  gray  hairs.  He  began  life  in  humble  circumstances, 
and  probably  had  few  or  no  expectations  of  ever  becoming 
independently  rich.  He  was  covetous  of  gold,  and  kept 
what  he  got  with  a  grasp  that  seldom  relaxed  at  the  call  of 
charity,  and  never  but  with  the  faint  hope  that  he  might  be 
the  gainer  in  the  end  by  giving.  But  his  money  grew  as  he 
grew  older.     Shillings  became  pounds,  and  pounds  gained 


380  A    BROTHER    INDEED. 

Others,  and  so  it  went  on  from  year  to  year,  till  he  became  a 
man  of  capital,  and  was  looked  up  to  by  the  towns-people  as 
one  to  be  consulted  and  respected  because  he  was  rich.  He 
had  no  family  of  his  own ;  the  wife  of  his  youth,  a  bright 
loving  creature,  whose  smile  was  sunshine  to  the  poor,  and 
whose  heart  was  all  alive  in  doing  good,  withered  early,  and 
found  in  Heaven  a  better  home  than  his  house  or  bosom  fur- 
nished ;  so  that  for  many  long  years,  having  never  married 
again,  he  had  lived  to  accumulate,  spending  scarcely  any- 
thing, and  laying  up  every  thing,  as  if  possession  were  the 
highest  earthly  good. 

He  had  a  sister ;  in  childhood  his  only  playmate,  and  the 
memory  of  that  sister  sometimes  came  to  him  as  a  dream  of 
an  angel  whom  he  had  seen  in  another  world.  When  they 
were  children,  the  difference  in  their  dispositions  was  appa- 
rent, and  while  the  lavish  kindness  of  the  girl  won  the  oft 
repeated  smiles  of  their  parents,  their  joys  were  saddened 
truly  by  seeing,  as  they  had  to  see,  that  her  bounty  minis- 
tered to  the  grasping  and  all-engrossing  disposition  of  the 
boy.  The  more  his  fond  sister  poured  into  his  lap,  tbe  less 
willing  did  he  appear  to  make  a  return  in  kind,  or  to  share 
with  her  a  luxury  which  might  have  been  at  first  bestowed  on 
him.  Playthings  that  were  given  to  him  he  kept  to  himself; 
her  playthings  he  was  always  trying  to  get  and  keep.  This 
was  the  boy,  and  the  boy  was  the  father  of  the  man.  Tlie 
same  habit  of  acquisition  thus  early  formed,  the  desire  for 
possession  and  the  unwillingness  to  give,  were  developed 
with  more  and  more  power  as  he  grew  up  to  manhood,  and 
haunted  him  to  the  grave. 

That  sister,  gentle  and  good,  so  mild  and  generous,  that 
she  never  chided  or  thwarted  him,  grew  up  with  him,  and 
was  by  and  by  married  to  one  who  knew  her  worth,  and 
loved  her  for  what  she  was.  But  he  was  poor,  and  Mary 
did  not  make  him  richer  in  this  world's  goods ;  and  as  the 
cares  and  outlays  of  the  family  grew  on  them,  and  the  num- 
ber of  children,  the  blessings  of  Him  that  maketh  rich,  was 
increased,  they  found  it  very  hard  to  make  both  ends  of  the 


A    BROTHER    INDEED.  381 

year  meet.  Besides  this,  he  was  in  feeble  health,  and  the 
anxieties  of  life  pressed  heavily  on  him ;  sickness,  long  and 
hopeless,  wasted  his  energies,  and  at  last  laid  him  in  the 
grave.  And  the  widow — the  orphans — where  were  they  ? 
They  followed  the  fpnd  husband  and  father  to  the  church- 
yard, and  in  his  grave  they  buried  their  hopes  of  happiness 
here,  and  then  returned,  poor  and  comfortless,  to  their  deso- 
late home.  In  the  same  village  with  her  brother,  now  a 
prosperous  man  of  business,  she  had  struggled  for  years  with 
poverty,  and  he  knew  it,  but  had  never  ministered  to  their 
relief;  and  now  in  her  loneliness  and  widowhood,  she  betook 
herself  to  his  house  determined  to  make  known  her  real 
condition,  and  to  seek  a  brother's  aid.  As  she  was  walking 
thither,  she  thought  of  youth,  and  its  childish  pleasures  came 
back  to  her  soul  with  freshness  like  the  memory  of  the  last 
spring-flowers ;  but  in  the  midst  of  these  recollections  her 
heart  was  saddened  as  she  recalled  the  early  ways  of  her 
selfish  brother,  who  lived  even  then  for  himself,  and  had  no 
thought  of  trying  to  be  happy  by  making  others  so.  She 
found  him  alone,  for  there  were  few  who  ever  visited  him 
except  business  sent  them,  and  then  their  visits  were  very 
short.  She  told  him  the  tale  of  her  troubles :  how  that  it 
had  pleased  God,  as  her  brother  knew,  to  leave  her  in 
widowhood  with  three  orphans,  and  with  nothing  to  live  on 
but  the  scanty  earnings  of  her  needle,  and  it  was  little  that 
she  could  do  with  that  while  she  had  the  care  of  these 
children  on  her  heart  and  hands ;  and  now  in  her  utter 
destitution  she  had  come  to  him  with  whom  in  days  long 
since  fled,  but  fresh  in  memory  still,  she  had  lived,  and 
whom  she  loved,  to  pray  that  he  would  do  something  to 
assist  her  in  the  support  of  her  helpless  babes.  Did  he  say 
to  her,  sister,  here  is  my  house  with  no  tenant  but  myself  and 
a  servant  who  tends  the  door ;  come  and  cheer  me  now 
as  you  played  with  me  when  we  were  children ;  let  your 
children  be  in  these  halls  as  we  were  then  in  those  sunny 
days,  and  here  share  with  me  the  abundance  with  which  I 
am  blessed.     Did  he  meet  her  thus  ?  Not  he.     He  gave  her 


382  A    BROTHER    INDEED. 

•a  few  dollars,  and  told  her  he  guessed  she  would  get  along ; 
he  always  thought  it  was  foolish  in  her  to  get  married,  and 
now  she  had  found  it  out ;  and  with  such  cruel  words  the 
monster  stamped  on  her  heart,  and  crushed  the  last  spark  of 
hope  that  glimmered  in  her  burdened  breast. 

Poor  thing !  She  went  to  her  dark  and  dreary  abode,  and 
gathering  her  Uttle  ones  at  her  knees,  told  them  of  Jesus  who 
was  rich,  and  for  our  sake  became  poor,  that  we  might  be 
rich.  And  then  she  taught  them  to  look  to  Him  for  their 
help,  for  the  help  of  man  was  vain.  She  struggled  on  a  few 
years  longer,  and  died :  her  children  found  friends  for  their 
mother's  sake,  as  she  had  many,  but  the  hard-hearted  brother 
never  cared  for  her  or  them.  Gold  was  the  god  of  his  idola- 
try. He  loved  nothing  else,  and  never  knew  that  in  this  or 
the  world  to  come,  there  is  any  other  happiness  than  that 
which  lies  in  the  bag  that  holds  the  gold. 

There  are  other  men,  I  have  seen  many,  with  just  such 
hearts  as  this  miser's.  They  may  not  leave  their  relatives 
to  suffer ;  but  they  will  not  share  with  them  the  blessings  of 
Providence,  feeling  that  what  belongs  to  one  should  be  free 
to  all  who  are  destitute.  There  is  the  love  of  Christ  in 
charity ;  and  yet  there  are  men  whom  we  call  Christians, 
who  see  their  brethren  having  need,  and  shut  up  their  bow- 
els of  compassion  against  them.  But  the  blessedness  of  life 
is  in  giving.  It  has  the  double  power  of  "  blessing  him  that 
gives  and  him  that  takes,"  and  he  that  has  felt  the  sweetness 
of  doing  good,  knows  there  is  no  other  luxury  like  it. 

A  brother  is  born  for  adversity,  and  one  who  has  no  heart 
for  the  sorrows  of  another  is  not  worthy  of  the  name  of 
brother-man.  There  is  a  sentiment  of  love  in  every  right 
heart,  that  goes  out  to  every  suffering  son  or  daughter  of 
man,  and  if  this  sentiment  were  universal,  the  world  would 
be  an  universal  brotherhood.  It  is  the  gospel  that  thus  ce- 
ments society :  the  heathen  are  without  natural  affection ; 
an  philosophy  is  cold  except  as  it  sometimes  catches  a  spark 
of  iuc  from  the  religion  of  Jesus.  Infidelity  never  would 
have  built  an  almshouse  any  more  than  paganism  would  con- 


A    BROTHER    INDEED.  383 

trive  a  hospital.  Either  would  teach  that  suicide  or  murder 
s  preferable  to  life  in  a  state  of  dependent  suffering,  and  it 
belongs  to  the  Bible  only  to  gild  the  darker  scenes  of  this 
world  with  hope  that  promises  joy  to  come.  And  under  the 
power  of  that  religion  which  the  Bible  teaches,  the  man  who 
has  faith  in  God,  and  expects  to  be  judged  by  His  law,  should 
feel  that  his  brother  is  to  be  loved  as  himself,  and  that  every 
man  who  hateth  his  brother,  or  refuses  to  do  to  him  as  he 
would  be  done  by,  cannot  be  the  friend  of  God. 

There  is  the  greater  need  of  bringing  these  thoughts  dis- 
tinctly before  the  mind  of  Christians  now,  when  the  mock 
philanthropy  of  the  day,  that  prates  incessantly  of  social  re- 
form and  universal  love,  has  made  so  strong  an  onset  on  the 
Christian  principle,  as  if  that  were  not  sufficient  to  make  men 
benevolent.  The  church  of  God  is  indeed  dishonored  by  the 
hard-heartedness  of  many  who  wear  her  livery,  but  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  gospel,  "  peace  on  earth  and  good- will  to  men," 
is  not  tarnished  by  the  fact,  that  some  who  have  the  form  of 
religion  never  feel  its  power.  Let  those  who  would  be 
CHRISTIANS  be  men :  let  them  have  the  sympathies  that  be- 
long to  the  family  of  men,  and  exhibit  the  beauty  of  that 
grace  whose  spread  shall  make  the  wilderness  a  garden  and 
the  world  a  paradise. 

REFRESHING   GALES. 

How  sweetly  doth  this  music  sound  in  this  dead  season  ! 
In  the  day  time,  it  would  not,  it  could  not,  so  much  effect  the 
ear.  All  harmonious  sounds  are  advanced  by  a  silent  dark- 
ness. Thus  it  is  with  the  glad  tidings  of  salvation ;  the 
Gospel  never  sounds  so  sweet  as  in  the  night  of  preservation, 
or  of  our  own  private  affliction ;  it  is  ever  the  same ;  the 
difference  is  in  our  disposition  to  receive  it.  O  God,  whose 
praise  it  is  to  give  songs  in  the  night,  make  my  prosperity 
conscionable,  and  my  crosses  cheerful. 


384  AZURE-TINTED    DOME. 


Original. 

AZURE-TINTED    DOME. 

BY     M .     L . 

Stretch  forth,  thou  azure-tinted  dome. 

And  from  these  mortal  eyes  conceal  my  home ; 

I  look  by  faith  beyond  thee,  and  can  see 

The  crown  of  glory  waiting  there  for  me. 

Fair  firmament  in  beauty  stretching  o'er  the  .scene. 

Although  ye  spread  this  form  and  Christ  between. 

Still  when  these  waiting  eyes  with  tears  grow  dim. 

It  is  because  by  faith  I  see  not  him — 

Thou  azure-tinted  dome ! 

Oh  beautiful  thou  art  at  break  of  day, — 
When  golden  tints  break  out  of  colors  gray, 
Which  gently  change  to  thy  own  matchless  blue. 
As  Sol  begins  his  stately  course  through  you. 
More  glorious  far  thou  art  when  day  is  o'er. 
When  Sol  above  the  waves  is  seen  no  more ; 
For  when  he  sets,  thy  radiant  face  appears 
Like  Christian's  when  he  leaves  this  world  of  tears — 
Thou  azure-tinted  dome ! 

'Tie  well  that  thou  art  there,  though  I  may  be 
Awhile  impatient  through  thy  veil  to  see 
The  form  of  him  I  love,  my  Saviour's  form, 
That  once  was  crucified  to  save  a  worm. 
How  far  beyond  thy  curtaining  is  (Jod, 
Seen  as  he  is  .' — the  Christian's  best  reward. 
Thy  depths  seem  infinite,  I  own,  but  yet 
Beyond  thee  is  bright  Canaan's  pearly  gate — 
Thou  azure-tinted  dome ! 

Live  on,  thou  beauteous  element,  till  he 
Who  gave  thee  being  bids  thee  cease  to  be ; 
Though  changeless,  moveless,  emblem  of  the  true, 
Though  first  created,  I  shall  outlive  you; 


TO    A    MOTHER    ON    THE    DEATH    OF    HEE    CHILD.  385 

Thou'rt  not  immortal,  I  shall  see  thee  roll 

At  angels'  bidding  like  a  jjarched  scroll.  .   > 

Then,  then,  thou  wilt  no  longer  hide  from  me 

Jerusalem,  and  all  I  long  to  see — 

Thou  azure-tinted  dome ! 


Original. 

TO  A  MOTHER  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILQ 

BT     REV.     S.     V.     BURCHARD. 

Oh  !  moarn  not  his  loss, 
For  though  beauteous  and  bright, — 
The  sweet  budding  boy- 
Was  but  LKNT,  and  not  given, — 
Death  saw,  and  in  pity 
Ere  sorrow  could  blight, 
In  triumph  convey'd  him 
To  blossom  in  Heaven. 

Oh  1  mourn  not  his  loss. 
For  his  spirit  is  free 
From  the  thraldom  of  Earth, 
From  its  sorrow  and  care  ; 
Rejoice,  he  hath  burst 
The  dark  bounds  of  the  tomb. 
To  dw.ell  i)igh  the  Godhead, 
With  spirits  as  fair. 

Then  in  humble  submission 
Bend  lowly  the  knee. 
In  meek  adoration 
Submit  to  the  ro(J, 
All  radiant  in  beauty 
And  fadeless  in  bloom. 
He  waits  thee  with  smiles 
At  the  throne  of  thv  God. 


386  THE    DEATH    OF    CHRI3T. 


THE    DEATH    OF    CHRIST. 

The  hour  of  Christ's  death  was  the  most  proUfic  of  great 
events  since  time  began  to  run — since  hours  began  to  be 
numbered.  It  was  the  hour  in  which  Christ  was  glorified 
by  his  sufferings.  Through  the  cloud  of  his  humiUation  his 
native  lustre  broke  forth  ;  but  never  did  it  shine  so  bright  as 
now.  It  was,  indeed,  the  hour  of  distress  and  blood.  It  is 
distress  that  ennobles  every  great  character,  and  distress 
was  to  glorify  the  Son  of  God.  He  was  now  to  teach  all 
mankind,  by  his  example,  how  to  suffer  and  how  to  die. — 
What  magnanimity  in  all  his  words  and  actions,  on  this  great 
occasion  !  No  upbraiding,  no  complaining  expression  es- 
caped from  his  lips ;  he  betrayed  no  symptoms  of  a  weak,  a 
disconTposed,  or  impatient  mind.  With  all  the  dignity  of  a 
sovereign,  he  conferred  pardon  on  a  penitent  fellow-sufferer; 
with  a  greatness  of  mind  beyond  example,  he  spent  his  last 
moments  in  apologies  and  prayers  for  those  that  were  shed- 
ding his  blood.  This  was  the  hour  in  which  Christ  atoned 
for  the  sins  of  mankind,  and  accomplished  our  eternal  re- 
demption. It  was  the  hour  when  that  great  sacrifice  was 
offered  up,  the  efficacy  of  which  reaches  back  to  the  first 
transgression  of  man,  and  extends  forward  to  the  end  of 
time — the  hour  when  from  the  cross,  as  from  a  lofty  altar, 
the  blood  was  flowing  which  washed  away  the  guilt  of  na- 
tions. In  this  hour  the  long  series  of  prophecies,  visions, 
types  and  figures  were  accomplished. 

This  was  the  centre  in  which  they  all  met.  You  behold 
the  law  and  the  prophets  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  cross 
and  doing  homage ;  you  behold  Moses  and  Aaron  bearing 
the  ark  of  the  covenant,  David  and  Elijah  presenting  the 
oracle  of  the  testimony ;  you  behold  all  the  Priests  and  sac- 
rifices, all  the  rites  and  ordinances,  all  the  types  and  symbols 
assembled  together  to  receive  their  consummation.  This 
was  the  hour  of  the  abolition  of  the  law,  and  the  introduction 


THE    DEATH    OF    CHRIST.  387 

of  the  Gospel ;  the  hour  of  terminating  the  old  and  beginning 
the  new  dispensation.  "  It  is  finished  !"  When  he  uttered 
these  words  he  changed  the  state  of  the  Universe.  This 
was  the  ever  memorable  point  of  time  which  separated  the 
Old  and  New  World  from  each  other.  On  one  side  of  the 
point  of  separation,  you  behold  the  law  with  its  priests,  its 
sacrifices  and  its  rites  retiring  from  the  sight.  On  the  other 
you  behold  the  Gospel,  with  its  simple  and  venerable  institu- 
tion, coming  forward  in  view.  Significantly  was  the  veil 
of  the  temple  rent  in  twain,  for  the  glory  then  departed  from 
before  the  cherubim.  The  legal  High  Priest  delivered  up 
his  URiM  and  thum.mim,  his  breast-plate,  his  robes  and  his  in- 
cense, and  Christ  stood  forth  as  the  great  High  Priest  of  all 
succeeding  generations.  Altars  on  which  the  fire  had  blazed 
for  ages  were  now  to  smoke  no  more  ;  now  it  was,  also,  that 
he  threw  down  the  walls  of  partition  which  had  so  long  di- 
vided the  Gentile  fi'om  the  Jew,  and  gathered  into  one  all 
the  faithful  of  every  kindred  and  people.  This  was  the  hour 
of  Christ's  triumph  over  all  the  powers  of  darkness — the 
hour  in  which  he  overthrew  dominions  and  thrones,  led  cap- 
tivity captive,  and  gave  gifts  unto  men,  then  it  was  that  the 
foundation  of  every  pagan  temple  shook,  the  statue  of  every 
false  god  tottered  on  its  base,  the  priest  fled  from  his  falling 
shrine,  and  the  heathen  oracles  became  forever  dumb  ;  this 
was  the  hour  when  our  Lord  erected  that  spiritual  kingdom, 
which  is  never  to  end.  His  enemies  imagined  that  in  this 
hour  they  had  successfully  accomplished  their  plan  of  his 
destruction ;  but  how  little  did  they  know  that  the  Almighty 
was  at  that  moment  setting  him  as  a  king  on  the  hill  of  Zi-on; 
how  little  did  they  know  that  their  badges  of  mock  royalty 
was  at  that  moment  converted  into  the  signs  of  absolute 
dominion,  and  the  instruments  of  irresistible  power.  The 
reed  which  they  put  into  his  hands  became  a  rod  of  iron, 
with  which  he  was  to  break  his  enemies  in  pieces — a  sceptre 
with  which  he  was  to  rule  the  Universe  in  righteousness. 
The  cross  which  they  thought  was  to  stigmatize  him  with 
infamy,  became  the  ensign  of  his  renown ;  instead  of  being 


388  DEDICATION    OF    YOUTH    TO    GOD. 

the  reproach  of  his  followers  it  was  to  be  their  boast  and 
their  glory;  the  cross  which  was  to  shine  on  palaces  and 
churches  throughout  the  Earth  ;  it  was  to  be  assumed  as  the 
distinction  of  the  most  powerful  monarchs,  and  to  wave  in 
the  banners  of  victorious  armies,  when  the  memory  of  Herod 
and  Pilate  should  be  accursed,  when  Jerusalem  should  be 
reduced  to  ashes,  and  the  Jews  be  vagabonds  over  all  the 
world. 


DEDICATION    OF    YOUTH    TO    GOD. 
ADDRESSED    TO    YOUNG   LADIES. 


BY      MRS 


It  should  always  be  remembered  for  the  consolation  and 
encouragement  of  youth,  that  in  making  the  decision  in  favor 
of  religion  in  early  life,  there  is  comparatively  little  to  undo  : 
while  if  this  most  important  duty  is  left  until  a  later  period, 
there  will  be  the  force  of  long  established  habit  to  contend 
with  on  the  side  of  wrong,  meshes  of  evil  to  unravel,  dark 
paths  to  travel  back,  and  all  that  mingled  texture  of  light  and 
darkness  which  originates  in  a  polluted  heart,  and  a  partially 
enlightened  understanding  to  separate  thread  from  thread. 
And,  oh  !  what  associations,  what  memories  are  there  !  what 
gleaming  forth  again  of  the  false  fire :  even  after  the  true 
has  been  kindled !  what  yawning  of  the  wide  sepulchre  in 
which  the  past  is  buried,  though  it  cannot  rest,  what 
struggling  with  the  demons  of  imagination  !  before  they  are 
cast  out  forever?  what  bleeding  of  the  heart,  which,  like  a 
chastened  child,  would  kiss  the  rod,  yet  dare  not  think  how 
many  stripes  would  be  commensurate  with  its  delinquency ! — 
Oh !  happy  youth !  it  is  thy  privilege,  that  this  can  never  be 
thy  portion ! 

Yes,  happy  youth !  for  thou  art  ever  happy  in  the  con- 


DEDICATION    OF    YOUTH    TO    GOD.  389 

templation  of  age ;  and  yet  thou  hast  thy  tears.  Thou  hast 
thy  trials  too,  and  perhaps  their  acuteness  renders  them  less 
bearable  than  the  dull  burden  of  accumulated  sorrow,  which 
hangs  upon  maturer  years.  Thou  hast  thy  sorrows ;  and 
when  the  mother's  eye  is  closed,  that  used  to  watch  thy 
infant  steps  so  fondly :  and  the  father's  hand  is  cold,  that 
used  to  rest  upon  thy  head  with  gentle  and  impressive 
admonition ;  whom  hast  thou,  whom  wilt  thou  ever  have,  to 
supply  thy  parents'  place  on  earth?  Whom  hast  thou? 
The  world  is  poor  to  thee ;  for  none  will  ever  love  thee  with 
a  love  like  theirs.  Thou  hast  thy  golden  and  exuberant 
youth,  thy  joyous  step,  thy  rosy  smile,  and  we  call  thee 
happy.  But  thou  hast  also  thy  hours  of  loneliness,  thy 
disappointments,  thy  chills,  thy  blights ;  when  the  hopes  on 
which  thy  young  spirit  has  soared  begin  for  the  first  time  to 
droop ;  when  the  love  in  which  thou  hast  so  fondly  trusted 
begins  to  cool ;  when  the  flowers  thou  hast  cherished  begin 
to  fade ;  when  the  bird  thou  hast  fed  through  the  winter,  in 
the  summer  flies  away  ;  when  the  lamb  thou  hast  nursed  in 
thy  bosom,  prefers  the  stranger  to  thee — Thou  hast  tears ; 
but  the  bitterness  of  thy  sorrows,  how  soon  are  they  assuaged  ! 
It  is  this  then  which  constitutes  thy  happiness,  for  we  all  have 
griefs ;  but  long  before  old  age.  they  have  worn  themselves 
channels  which  cannot  be  effaced.  It  is  therefore  that 
we  look  back  to  youth  with  envy ;  because  the  tablet  of  the 
heart  is  then  fresh,  and  unimpressed,  and  we  long  to  begin 
again  with  that  fair  surface  ;  and  to  write  upon  it  no  charac- 
ters but  those  of  truth. 

And  will  not  youth  accept  the  invitation  of  experience, 
and  come  before  it  is  too  late  ? — and  come  with  all  its  health, 
and  its  bloom,  and  its  first-fruits  untainted,  and  lay  them 
upon  the  altar ;  an  offering  which  age  cannot  make  ?  Let 
us  count  the  diflferent  items  in  the  riches  that  belongs  to 
youth,  and  ask  if  it  is  not  a  holy  and  a  glorious  privilege  to 
dedicate  them  to  the  service  of  the  Most  High ! 

First,  then,  there  is  the  freshness  of  unwearied  nature,  for 
which  so  many  millions  pine  in  vain  :  the  glow  of  health,  that 


390  MOURNING    APPAREL. 

life-spring  of  all  the  energies  of  thought  and  action,  the 
confidence  of  unbroken  trust — the  power  to  believe,  as  well 
as  hope — a  power  which  the  might  of  human  intellect  could 
never  yet,  restore ;  the  purity  of  undivided  affection ;  the 
earnestness  of  zeal  unchilled  by  disappointment ;  the  first 
awakening  of  joy,  that  has  never  been  depressed :  high 
aspirations  that  have  never  stooped  to  earth  ;  the  clear 
perception  of  a  mind  unbiassed  in  its  search  of  truth  ;  with 
the  fervor  of  an  untroubled  soul. 

All  these,  and  more  than  pen  could  write  or  tongue  could 
utter,  has  youth  the  power  to  dedicate  to  the  noblest  cause 
that  ever  yet  engaged  the  attention  of  an  intellectual  and 
immortal  being.  What,  then,  I  would  ask  again,  is  that 
which  hinders  the  surrender  of  your  heart  to  God,  your  con- 
duct to  the  requirements  of  the  religion  of  Christ  ? 


MUSIC    AT    NIGHT. 

We  read  that  in  certain  climates  the  gales  that  spring 
from  the  land,  carry  a  refreshing  smell  out  to  sea,  and 
assure  the  watchful  pilot  that  he  is  approaching  to  a  de- 
sirable and  fruitful  coast,  when  as  yet  he  cannot  discern  it 
with  his  eyes.  And  to  take  up  once  more  the  comparison 
of  life  to  a  voyage,  in  like  manner  it  fares  with  those  who 
have  steadily  and  religiously  pursued  the  course  which 
Heaven  pointed  out  to  them.  We  shall  sometimes  find  by 
their  conversation  towards  the  end  of  their  days,  that  they 
are  filled  with  peace,  and  hope,  and  joy :  which,  like  those 
refreshing  gales  and  reviving  odors  to  the  seaman,  are 
breathed  forth  from  Paradise  upon  their  souls ;  and  give 
them  to  understand  with  certainty,  that  God  is  bringing 
them  unto  their  desired  haven. 


LETTERS    FROM    A    HOLLOW    TREE.  391 

Original. 

LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE. 


My  dear  young  friends  : — According  to  promise  I  re- 
sume the  correspondence  ;  and  we  will  return  without  fur- 
ther ceremony  to  the  point  where  I  left  you — namely, — to 
the  threshold  of  my  Third  Floor,  which  I  call  my  Museum 
of  Living  Nature.  Here  I  have  studies  from  life  in  many 
pleasing  varieties,  which  I  hope  will  interest  you  as  much 
as  they  do  me.  So,  here  we  enter — and  the  little  ladies — 
and,  indeed,  the  larger  ladies — will  please  not  to  shriek  or 
fall  into  fits  at  the  numerous  bugs,  worms,  reptiles,  and  sting- 
ing insects  they  will  see^  for  though  such  behavior  may  be 
called  lady-like,  it  is,  in  my  opinion,  exceedingly  unwomanly. 
I  have  rarely  seen  it  associated  with  any  great  intrinsic  deli- 
cacy of  character ;  and  it  is  wholly  unworthy  of  any  true 
lover  of  science.  I  can  assure  you  there  is  not  the  least 
danger,  since  I  have  never  been  either  stung,  or  bitten,  by 
any  of  these  creatures,  though  I  have  been  in  the  constant 
habit  of  familiarity  with  them  for  years. 

It  is  surprising  how  much  even  the  lowest  and  most 
noisome  animals  are  improved  by  the  society  of  man,  espe- 
cially if  they  are  treated  with  uniform  kindness.  The  most 
vindictive  and  spiteful  I  have  found  may  be  won  by  gentle- 
ness, as  if  experience  had  corrected  and  overcome  their  evil 
instincts ;  and  they  learn  to  regard  man  as  a  protector  and 
friend — as  their  natural  liege-lord,  who,  from  the  beginning, 
was  invested  with  the  divine  right  of  sovereignty — rather 
than  as  their  great  enemy.  Does  not  this  show  that  Love 
is  omnipotent ;  and  that  it  is  yet  destined  to  subdue  all  evil, 
and  bring  all  force,  and  violence,  and  wrong,  into  subjection 
to  its  beautiful  laws  ?     But  we  will  talk  about  this  doctrine 


392  LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE. 

some  other  time ;  for  it  is  quit  a  hobby  of  mine  ;  and  for 
the  present  we  will  just  look  round  among  my  people,  and 
see  what  we  can  find. 

The  first  thing  you  will  notice  is  my  fine  community  of 
silk  worms.  They  are  now  winding  their  cocoons,  and  a 
very  beautiful  sight  it  is ;  for  the  bright  balls  of  various 
colors  have  the  appearance  of  rich  tropical  fruits,  and  they 
contrast  charmingly  with  the  green  boughs  on  which  they 
are  hung. 

A  little  farther  on  you  will  see  a  flourishing  kingdom  of 
bees.  Accuracy  of  language  seems  to  require  that  I  should 
say  queendom  ;  for  although  there  is  no  such  name  for  the 
body-politic,  there  ought  to  be,  to  indicate  those  nations  who 
are  invariably  governed  by  a  female  sovereign.  I  have  con- 
structed a  sliding  panel  on  one  side  of  the  apartment,  for 
the  express  accommodation  of  this  industrious  people,  into 
which  very  clear  plates  of  mica  are  introduced,  so  that  I  can 
watch  them  at  th^ir  labors,  and  observe  all  their  habits.  Of 
these  I  shall  tell  you  some  other  time — my  special  object 
now  being  to  introduce  you  to  my  company,  leaving  further 
aquaintance  to  a  period  of  greater  leisure. 

Just  beyond,  and  in  the  same  side,  I  have  hordes  of  ban- 
dits in  the  shape  of  wasps,  of  many  species.  Their  really 
curious  nests  are  glued  to  the  outer  wall,  some  of  them  pro- 
tected by  plates  of  mica,  others  open  to  the  apartirtent ;  and, 
in  addition  to  these,  I  have  a  fine  large  hornet's  nest.  You 
will  be  surprised,  perhaps,  that  I  have  given  such  citizens 
the  liberty  of  my  courts,  and  wonder  that  they  do  not  devour 
all  the  silk  worms  and  honey  bees,  which  are  their  favorite 
food.  At  first  I  was  apprehensive  that  this  would  be  the 
case,  but  the  experiment  shows  that  my  favorites  are  seldom 
disturbed.  I  can  account  for  this  only  in  the  supposition, 
that  the  instinct  of  these  voracious  creatures  teaches  them 
to  prey  abroad,  in  the  open  air.  There  is,  also,  a  fine  orchard 
not  very  distant,  in  the  open  country,  which,  as  it  happens 
to  belong  to  one  of  the  easy  sort  of  farmers,  is  nearly  de- 
voured by  canker  worms  and  other  caterpillars.     This  fur- 


LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE.  393 

nishes  a  rich  and  ample  field  for  forage  and  plunder.  I  have 
sometimes  also  pleased  myself  with  the  fancy  that  my  bar- 
barians had  caught  something  of  the  true  family  feeling,  and 
were  learning  to  respect  the  rights  of  home ;  and  it  really 
seems  as  if  their  native  savagism  was  becoming  softened 
towards  their  fellow  residents ;  for  I  have  not  unfrequently 
seen  bees,  wasps  and  hornets,  almost  jostle  each  other  in 
their  passage,  without  any  belligerent  demonstrations  from 
those  highwaymen  and  pirates  of  the  insect  tribes.  Indeed, 
it  sometimes  almost  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  could  see  them  gal- 
lantly touch  their  yellow  beavers,  as  they  hummed  a  pleasant 
"  good  morning,  friend ;"  or,  "  good  evening,  neighbor,"  as 
they  passed. 

Near  the  middle  of  the  room,  I  have  several  flourishing 
republics  of  ants  of  different  species ;  and  some  time  I  will 
tell  you  how  I  contrived  to  get  them  to  settle  with  me ;  I 
did  have  some  trouble^  about  it,  I  assure  you  ;  but  they  are 
now  quite  at  ho'tae,  and  happy  in  their  new  position. 

In  addition  to  all  the  above,  I  have  a  great  variety  of  but- 
terflies, moths,  spiders  and  beetles — some  natives,  and  some 
foreigners ;  but  they  have  all  become  perfectly  naturalized 
and  worthy  citizens  -of  the  common  corporation,  which  I 
have  named  the  Insect's  Manor.  I  should  tell  you  that  there 
are  apertures  in  the  outer  walls,  for  the  egress  and  ingress 
of  the  citizens  generally. 

Adjoining  this  is  my  Aviary,  where  I  have  a  great  variety 
of  birds,  imported  from  different  countries,  and  all  quite  tame, 
though  perfectly  free.  The  foreign  birds  mostly  build  their 
nests  here ;  and  I  have  suspended  a  great  variety  of  baskets 
to  accommodate  them.  They  remain  with  me  the  whole 
year.  They  fly  away  into  the  forest  whenever  they  choose ; 
but  they  never  fail  to  come  back  again.  Among  these  are 
the  mocking-bird,  the  English  goldfinch,  lark  and  nightingale 
— the  Carolina  parrot,  a  beautiful  pair  of  turtle  doves,  and  a 
great  variety  of  canaries.  In  addition  to  these  I  have  won 
the  confidence  of  most  of  the  smaller  birds  of  the  neighboring 
forest,  and  they  visit  me  daily ;  and,  for  the  most  part,  as  if 


394  LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE. 

seeking  protection  from  the  birds  of  prey,  they  build  their 
nests  close  to  me.  I  can  sometimes  stand  in  one  spot,  and 
count  fifty,  or  more,  of  these  little  habitations ;  so  that  the 
whole  wood  around  me  is,  in  fact,  one  great  aviary.  If  you 
want  to  hear  true  native  bird-singing,  come  to  me,  and  you 
shall  be  gratified  with  the  sweet  songs  of  freedom,  swelling 
with  the  full  rich  notes  of  gladness,  such  as  you  never  heard 
from  the  beautiful  prisoners  of  your  city  cages. 

The  next  apartment,  and  the  last  on  this  floor,  is  occupied 
by  quadrupeds,  some  of  which  are  very  rare  and  beautiful, 
having  been  imported  from  foreign  lands.  I  have,  also,  be- 
sides these,  a  numerous  family  of  native  quadrupeds — squir- 
rels, marmots,  hares,  dormice,  and  many  others,  which  I 
must  not  stop  to  enumerate  at  present ;  for  if  I  did  so,  I 
should  make  a  volume  instead  of  a  single  letter.  Imust  tell 
you,  however,  that  this  apartment  is  connected  with  the 
ground,  by  an  inclined  plane,  which  I  have  constructed  on 
the  outside  for  the  convenience  of  its  inmates,  so  that  they 
can  ascend  and  descend  at  pleasure. 

These  three  rooms  complete  the  third  floor ;  but  I  have 
still  another  story,  to  which  we  ascend  by  a  flight  of  steps, 
reaching  quite  to  the  present  summit  of  the  tree.  This  has 
been  sawn  off" — a  flooring  has  been  laid — the  whole  makihg 
a  platform  of  six  feet  in  diameter,  surrounded  by  an  iron 
railing.  This  I  call  my  Observatory ;  and,  as  it  occupies 
the  greatest  elevation  of  land  for  many  miles  around,  and  the 
whole  country,  as  well  as  its  shores,  are  in  the  highest  degree 
picturesque,  I  am  able  to  command,  as  i  sometimes  think, 
one  of  the  loveliest  horizons  in  the  world.  The  height  and 
position  are  such,  that  you  stand  above,  and  look  over  the 
summits  of  the  loftiest  trees  in  the  surrounding  forest.  Be- 
yond this,  and  far  away  to  the  North,  is  a  bold  sweep  of  hills, 
or  I  might  say  mountains,  which  stand  out  in  strong  relief 
against  the  sky — now  of  the  clearest,  deepest  blue — producing 
an  effect  equally  allied  to  the  beautiful  and  the  sublime. 
Issuing  from  between  the  ridges  of  everlasting  granite,  a  fine 
river  is  seen  in  the  utmost  distance  the  eye  can  reach.     In 


LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE.  395 

passing  its  mountain  barrier  it  forms  a  cataract  of  great 
beauty — then  flows  on  through  the  fertile  valley,  now  golden 
with  its  wealth  of  ripe  corn.  The  landscape  is  everywhere 
sprinkled  with  rustic  villages,  or  dotted  with  white  cottages, 
that  give  a  pleasing  effect  to  the  still  green  meadows.  The 
view  is  enlivened  by  every  variety  of  hill  and  plain,  rock 
and  valley,  until  turning  quite  round  to  the  East,  the  ocean 
is  seen  with  its  sprinkling  sails — its  far-reaching  girdle  of 
soft  deep  blue — and  its  great  arms  stretching  far  beyond  the 
reach  of  vision,  and  grasping,  as  it  were,  the  Infinite. 

I  have  here  called  Science  to  my  aid ;  and  my  vision  is 
strengthened  and  extended  by  a  fine  terrestrial  telescope, 
through  which  I  bring  remote  objects  into  my  immediate 
neighborhood.  I  frequently  make  observations  upon  the 
sea,  watching  the  return  or  departure  of  ships  ;  and,  by  vir- 
tue of  my  human  being,  interesting  myself  in  the  supposed 
hopes  and  fears,  the  joys  and  sorrows,  of  men  under  all  these 
changes.  All  the  phases  of  the  ocean  are  to  me  subjects  of 
the  deepest  interest — whether  it  is  slumbering  in  the  deep 
repose  of  a  perfect  calm — spreading  out  like  a  vast  mirror 
for  the  eternal  stars — or,  lashed  into  wrath  by  the  scourge 
of  storms,  the  waves  are  piled  mountains  high,  with  deep 
dark  vales  between,  where  the  spirits  of  evil  walk  forth  on 
their  errands  of  desolation  and  death. 

And,  when  I  would  look  farther  into  the  mysteries  of  the 
worlds  above,  than  the  unassisted  eye  can  reach,  I  have  a 
large  and  excellent  celestial  telescope,  by  which  I  can  ap- 
proach nearer  to  the  great  Book  of  Heaven,  and  read,  at  my 
leisure,  its  sublime  and  beautiful  lore.  I  have  a  fine  seat 
where  I  sit  and  commune  with  all  the  beauty,  the  harmony, 
the  majesty,  and  the  glory  that  surrounds  and  bends  over 
me.  Rays  of  the  Divine  are  continually  penetrating  my 
soul ;  and  I  perceive  spirit  radiating  from  matter — the  im- 
press of  the  Ever-Present,  visible  in  the  humblest  of  His 
works.  It  is  this  informing  principle  that  converts  the  study 
of  Nature  into  a  salutary  nutriment  for  the  mind.  Without 
this  there  may  be  a  perception  of  fitness,  proportion  or  beau- 


396  LETTi:RS  from  a  hollow  tree. 

ty;  but  it  is  a  body  without  a  soul,  quite  cold,  and  wholly 
devoid  of  life. 

The  telescope,  itself,  from  its  great  size,  must  remain  sta- 
tionary ;  so  I  have  constructed  over  it  a  portable  roof  to 
protect  it  from  the  weather,  which  I  remove  whenever  I 
make  use  of  it.  Now  tell  me  if  you  think  I  shall  ever  be 
lonesome,  with  all  these  companions,  and  all  these  resources? 
I  know  you  will  think  that  is  impossible ;  and  so  it  is.  Nor 
am  I  wholly  without  the  society  of  my  fellow  man.  Many 
scientific  gentlemen  and  ladies,  and  several  very  learned 
Naturalists,  frequently  visit  me  in  my  quarters.  Besides 
these,  I  am  now  expecting  two  very  intelligent  children  from 
a  distant  city,  to  reside  wholly  with  me,  until  they  are  pro- 
ficients in  the  several  Natural  Sciences.  They  will  come 
as  soon  as  my  daughters,  who  are  to  superintend  their  edu- 
cation, return  home — you  smile  at  the  word  home  as  applied 
to  such  a  place  ;  but  my  daughters  are  quite  enraptured 
with  their  residence,  and  could  not  be  persuaded  to  exchange 
it  for  any  other.  I  am  much  interested  in  the  mental  pro- 
gress of  the  children  I  have  just  alluded  to  ;  and  their  names 
are  Richard  and  Susan  Lovetruth. 

Now  let  us  descend  to  the  ground,  and  I  will  show  you 
my  vegetable  plot,  and  my  botanical  garden,  situated  in  a 
little  clearing  that  slopes  conveniently  to  the  South-west.  I 
have  here  not  only  all  the  indigenous  plants  and  shrubs  I  can 
procure,  but  many  rare  and  beautiful  exotics,  which  I  rear 
in  a  hot  house. 

I  have  also  a  fine  poultry  yard,  with  every  kind  of  fowl 
that  can  be  procured,  from  the  noisy  pintads,  or  Guinea  hen, 
to  the  valorous  bantam ;  from  the  gorgeous  peacock  to  the 
plain  barn-yard  fowl.  I  have  also  ducks  and  geese  in  every 
variety ;  and  dove  cotes  containing  many  species,  from  the 
beautiful  white  fan-tail  to  the  delicate  stock-pigeon,  in  his 
quaker-like  dress  of  soberest  state-blue. 

Now,  one  glimpse  of  my  stables ;  and,  first,  here  I  have  a 
charming  pair  of  Uttle  zebras — the  gentlest,  the  most  delicate 
and  afiectionate  creatures  of  the  cow  kind.     The  female  this 


LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE.  397 

year  has  had  a  fine  calf,  and  a  beautiful  little  creature  it  is, 
with  a  small  white  star  in  the  forehead,  though  the  parents 
are  both -of  a  fine  ash  gray.  This  shows  the  first  process  of 
the  change  in  color,  which  is  produced  in  animals  by  domes- 
tication ;  and  is  a  phenomenon  which  has  never,  I  believe, 
been  satisfactorily  accounted  for.  Perhaps  you  are  aware 
of  the  fact,  that  all  animals  in  a  state  of  nature,  are  either  of 
one  uniform  color,  or  that  their  stripes,  spots  and  shades, 
have  fixed  and  permanent  characteristics  ;  but  immediately 
on  domestication  the  original  color  begins  to  disappear,  until 
at  length  it  is  wholly  lost  in  an  infinite  variety  of  combina- 
tions of  shades,  mottlings  and  hues,  which  are  wholly  unknown 
in  the  natural  state.  Striking  instances  of  this  are  found  in 
the  dog  and  cat,  domestic  fowls  and  cattle. 

My  zebras  came  from  Calcutta,  where  they  are  held  in 
high  veneration  by  the  Hindoos ;  and  it  really  seems  to  me 
as  if  there  was  a  native  majesty  in  the  little  creatures,  as  if 
they  were  conscious  of  the  almost  divine  honors  to  which 
they  were  born  ;  so  naturally  and  irresistibly  do  all  crea- 
tures catch  an  idea  of  their  own  importance,  or  the  reverse, 
from  the  treatment  they  receive. 

I  have  also  a  fine  pair  of  the  Rocky  mountain  goats — a 
pair  of  sheep  from  the  same  region — a  pair  of  chamois  from 
the  Alps,  and  numerous  specimens  of  the  common  goat — all 
perfectly  tame — and,  would  you  believe  it  ?  a  pair  of  mag- 
nificent giraffes,  I  shall  have  to  tell  you  another  time  how 
I  obtained,  and  how  I  keep,  these  last  treasures. 

It  is  wonderful  how  tame,  and  gentle,  and  cooing,  all  these 
creatures  are.  And  now,  while  I  stand  here,  in  the  deep  old 
wood,  my  eyes  are  continually  startled  by  the  brilliant  plu- 
mage of  the  numerous  birds,  which,  whenever  I  approach, 
fly  lovingly  around,  frequently  dropping  to  the  ground,  for 
the  crumbs  and  grains  I  scatter  ;  or,  stooping  in  their  flight 
for  a  caress  from  my  outstretched  hand.  God  forbid  that  I 
should  ever  give  them  the  slightest  reason  to  repent  their 
beautiful  confidence.  I  should  like  to  describe  to  you  the 
several  varieties  that  I  see  at  this  moment,  with  the  effect  of 


GEMS    OP    THOUGHT. 

their  gorgeous  plumage  contrasting  with  the  deep  green 
foliage;  but  I  must  forbear. 

In  my  next  I  shall  tell  you  a  story  of  two  ravens,  that  I 
have  long  had  under  my  tutelary  care.  They  have  interest- 
ed me  very  much,  arid  I  think  their  history  will  please  you. 

Did  you  not  laugh  at  my  signature  to  the  last  letter  ?  I 
adopted  it  involuntarily.  The  good  country  people  round 
here  universally  call  me  "  Uncle  Nat."  But  I  will  now  re- 
turn to  my  own  proper  name — 

Naturus. 


GEMS    OF    THOUGHT. 

THE    HYPOCEITE. 

The  hypocrite  is  one  that  neither  is  what  he  seems,  nor 
SEEMS  what  he  is.  He  is  hated  by  the  world  for  seeming  a 
Christian,  and  by  God  for  not  being  one.  On  earth,  he  is  the 
picture  of  a  saint ;  but  in  eternity,  the  paint  will  all  be 
washed  off,  and  he  will  appear  at  the  judgment  in  his  own 
colors,  and  his  own  deformity. 

MY    CHARACTER. 

I  must  THINK  forever ;  would  an  eternal  train  of  my  thoughts 
be  either  worthy  of  me,  or  useful  to  me?  I  must  feel 
forever  ;  would  an  eternal  reign  of  my  present  spirit  and 
desires  please  me — make  me  happy  ?  I  must  act  forever  ; 
would  an  eternal  course  of  my  habitual  conduct  bring 
blessedness,  or  even  bear  reflection? 

FAMILY    government. 

"  A  family  without  proper  government,"  says  Matthew 
Henry,  "  is  like  a  house  without  a  roof — exposed  to  every 
wind  that  blows."  He  might  rather  have  said,  like  a  house 
in  flames,  which  is  commonly  a  scene  of  confusion,  and  too 
hot  to  live  in  ! 


GEMS    OF    THOUGHT.  399 

THE    WORLD,  THE    FLESH,  AND    THE    DEVIL. 

In  one  of  the  beautiful  allegories  of  Quevido,  Death  is 
introduced,  pointing  out  to  the  poet  three  grim-looking 
spectres,  armed,  and  of  human  shape,  and  so  exactly  like 
each  other  that  it  is  impossible  to  distinguish  which  is  which. 
"  Knowest  thou  these  beings  ?"  says  Death.  "  No,"  replies 
the  poet.  "  They  are  the  capital  enemies  of  thy  soul — the 
WORLD,  the  FLESH,  and  the  devil:  and  so  much  do  they 
resemble  each  other,  that  he  who  has  one,  in  effect  has  all. 
The  avaricious  man  clasps  the  world  to  his  heart,  and  behold 
Satan  is  in  his  arms  !  The  sensualist  embraces  the  flesh, 
and  lo  !  he  has  grasped  the  devil ! 

CHRISTIAN    liberality. 

The  patriarch  Abraham  gave  one  tenth  of  all  his  posses- 
sions to  religious  uses ;  and  so  did  Jacob,  and  many  others 
of  the  Old  Testament  saints.  And  it  is  worthy  of  notice  that 
the  Jews,  who  as  a  nation  gave  more  to  religious  purposes 
than  any  other  people,  were,  as  a  nation,  more  prosperous 
and  wealthy  than  any  other  that  ever  existed.  Even  the 
heathen — the  Arabians  according  to  Pliny,  and  the  Grecians 
according  to  Xenophon  and  Herodotus,  gave  no  less  than  a 
tenth  part  of  every  thing  to  sacred  uses.  And  shall  the 
Christian  do  less  for  his  God,  than  did  the  Jews  under  the  old 
dispensation,  or  the  very  heathen  for  their  idols  ? 

HOW    TO    shake    off    TROUBLE. 

Set  about  doing  good  to  somebody.  Put  on  your  hat,  and 
go  and  visit  the  sick  and  poor  of  yourneighborhood :  inquire 
into  their  circumstances,  and  minister  to  their  wants.  Seek 
out  the  desolate,  and  afflicted,  and  oppressed,  and  tell  them 
of  the  consolations  of  religion.  I  have  often  tried  this 
method,  says  Howard,  and  have  always  found  it  the  best 
medicine  for  a  heavy  heart.  R. 


Original. 


"THERE    IS    A.CALM."     8s  &  48. 


T.  Hastinss. 


2»Hlovr.  ,_    I         I       , 


!  I  i       I 

1.  There     is         a     calra 


-oj— •- 

T5 — •■ 

rest     for 


for     those   who   weep,      A 


:E-=fe-»- 


T 


I 

wea  -  ry    pU  -  grims  found;  They  soft  -  ]y    lie 

5z:ris:cizri3i"=»xJl" 


and   sweet-ly  sleep 


^m 


P: 


J" 


'T 


^4iq=:=r: 


TH" 


.^ritnrd. 


^■"rn    I. 


Xrfist  line  varied. 

T 


I  3. 

The  storm  that  sweeps  thy  wintry  sky,  i  Then,  traVller  in  the  vale  of  tears. 

No  more  disturbs  their  deep  repose,  i      To  realms  of  everlasting  sight. 
Than  summer  evening's  latest  sigh,       <  Thro'  time's  dark  wilderness  of  years. 
That  shuts  the  rose.         \  Pursue  thy  flight. 


Thy  soul  renew'd  by  grace  divine. 

In  God's  own  image  freed  from  clay, 
In  heaven's  eternal  sphere  shall  shine, 
A  star  of  day. 


Jk  U  T 


AM^     l<r©©IDILIE  a(EM 


-Engraved  expresslv    for   this    Annijal 


THE    FALL    OF    ABSALOM.  403 


A    BEACON    LIGHT. 

THE  FALL  OF  ABSALOM. 

EDIT  OEI  AL. 

In  the  fall  of  Absalom,  there  was  every  circumstance  that 
could  render  the  destiny  of  a  mortal  gloomy,  and  excite  the 
deepest  anguish  of  a  father.  His  uncommon  talents  and 
various  attractions,  raised  the  fondest  hopes  of  a  too  partial 
and  enthusiastic  nation,  while  his  depravity  and  his  vices 
caused  an  equal  share  of  pain,  and  gave  rise  to  the  most 
gloomy  forebodings. 

Absalom,  was  one  of  the  eldest  sons  of  David,  and  was 
iqually  distinguished  for  beauty,  address  and  ambition. 
Educated  in  the  splend?)r  of  a  magnificent  court,  he  united, 
with  a  princely  elegance  of  manners,  all  the  charms  that 
endear  a  companion  and  secure  the  favor  of  the  multitude. 
To  these  he  united  also  a  heart  void  of  integrity  and  virtue, 
and  an  ambition  which  aimed  at  the  most  unnatural  and 
daring  usurpation,  and  which  was  reckless  of  the  expedients 
adopted  for  its  gratification. 

For  the  sin  of  David  in  the  matter  of  Uriah,  God  had 
declared  the  "  sword  should  never  depart  from  his  house." 
The  unhappy  Abasalom  was  ordained  to  be  a  chief  instru- 
ment in  fulfilling  the  dread  purposes  of  Heaven.  He  began 
his  guilty  career  by  the  murder  of  his  incestuous  brother 
Amnon.     In  this  bloody  deed,  David  could  not  fail  to  see  the 

Pjust  retaliation  of  Heaven  for  his  own  aggravated  sin,  and  the 
recollection  of  it  doubtless  served  to  enhance  the  bitterness 
of  his  grief,  and  make  him  depecrate  the  further  effects  of 
the  divine  displeasure.  Although  far  more  excusable  for  this 
bloody  act,  as  it  seemed  a  just  retribution  on  Amnon,  than 
for  his  subsequent  conduct,  yet  for  this  Absalom  left  his 
country,  and  fled  a  voluntary  exile  where  he  remained 
several  years,  with  Talmai  King  of  Geshur,  a  neighboring 


404  THE    FALL    OF    ABSALOM. 

prince.  At  length,  through  the  mediation  of  Job  he  was  fully 
restored  to  his  fathers  favor. 

Absalom,  finding  himself  now  at  liberty  to  pursue  his  am- 
bitious schemes,  resolved  to  secure  the  crown  by  measures 
the  most  unnatural  and  revolting.  He  took  upon  him  the 
state  of  the  King's  eldest  son,  prepared  himself  a  pompous 
equipage  of  horses  and  chariots  and  attended  by  a  guard  of 
fifty  men.  About  this  time,  his  father  became  dangerously 
ill,  and  for  a  time,  his  life  was  despaired  of.  The  young 
Prince  seized  the  favorable  opportunity  to  lay  his  plans  and 
mature  his  measures  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  ambitious 
project.  He  adopted  every  expedient  he  could  think  of,  to 
alienate  the  affections  of  the  people  from  his  father  and  secure 
them  to  his  own  person.  To  this  end  he  shut  out  complaints 
which  had  been  made  to  his  father,  and  then  lamented  his 
neglect  of  administering  justice.  How  execrable  is  ambition 
thus  building  itself  upon  the  basest  ingratitude  and  the  most 
wicked  calumny !  "  O  that  I  were  a  judge  in  the  land, 
exclaimed  the  unprincipled  wretch,  that  every  man  which 
had  any  suit,  might  come  to  me  and  I  would  do  him  justice  !" 
With  such  unbecoming  language  did  he  fill  the  ears  of  those 
who  resorted  to  his  fathers  court  for  justice.  In  this  way,  he 
wound  himself  into  the  affection  and  esteem  of  many  of  the 
people,  weakened  their  loyalty  to  the  King  and  prepared 
them  to  join  with  him  and  aid  him  in  his  intended  usurpations. 

Absalom's  aspiring  ambition  was  concealed,  for  the  mo?t 
part,  by  his  personal  assiduities  to  his  father,  and  by  th^: 
intrigue  of  the  courtiers  whom  he  had  facinated  by  hi« 
address  or  won  by  his  liberality.  While  the  young  Prince 
was  stealing  the  hearts  of  the  people  and  gradually  undei- 
mining  the  throne  of  his  father,  he  was  able  to  cover  his 
designs  where  concealment  was  necessary,  and  render  thera 
popular  with  his  favorites  and  admirers. 

At  length,  when  every  part  of  the  plan  was  arranged,  and 
the  conspiracy  had  become  formidable  by  numbers  and 
talents  and  resources,  the  storm  burst  upon  the  kingdom 
with   desolating   fury.     Absalom   reared   the   standard   of 


THE    FALL    OF    ABSALOM.  405 

rebellion  against  his  great  and  venerable  father,  proclaimed 
himself  King  of  Israel,  and  denounced  his  father  as  a  tyrant 
unworthy  to  reign  or  to  live.  At  first,  the  conspiracy  ap- 
peared to  be  general,  every  thing  w^hich  offered  resistance 
was  threatened  with  destruction,  and  like  a  mighty  inunda- 
tion, it  bore  down  all  before  it. 

Absalom  had  obtained  permission  of  his  father  to  go  and 
oflfer  sacrifices  and  perform  a  vow  at  Hebron,  a  place  about 
30  miles  from  Jerusalem,  and  famous  as  being  a  kind  of 
political  centre  for  the  confederated  tribes.  In  the  meantime, 
emissaries  were  dispatched  in  haste  throughout  all  the  tribes, 
to  give  notice  that  the  plan  was  ripe  for  execution,  and  to 
establish  the  proper  signals  of  alarm  and  insurrection. 

In  Hebron  the  martial  trumpet  was  now  blown  :  the  vile 
usurper  was  proclaimed  King  and  the  people  seemed  to  rise 
in  a  body  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  flocked  in  great 
multitudes  to  the  standard  of  Absalom.  The  ancient  faction 
of  Saul,  particularly  in  the  powerful  tribe  of  Benjamin, 
favored  the  rebellion  and  were  the  first  in  arms.  Absalom 
had  taken  special  care  to  draw  into  his  train  Ahithophel, 
David's  ablest  counsellor,  whose  advice,  in  those  days,  wag 
said  to  be  like  the  oracle  of  God. 

In  this  hour  of  deep  calamity  and  gloom,  it  was  God's 
intention  to  humble  David,  but  not  to  destroy  him.  This 
aged  monarch  was  like  the  old  Lion  whose  great  swiftness 
and  strength  is  countervailed  by  his  increased  vigilance  and 
wisdom.  Many  of  the  officers  of  his  court  and  army,  who 
had  grown  grey  in  his  service,  still  adhered  to  him.  He 
retired  in  haste  from  Jerusalem,  and  fled  with  all  possible 
speed  eastward  over  Jordan,  and  assembled  what  force  he 
could  at  Mahanaim,  a  place  rendered  famous  in-  the  history 
of  the  patriarch  Jacob. 

David's  army  was  indeed  small  but  consisted  of  brave  and 
tried  soldiers.  Men  of  piety  and  virtue  adhered  to  his  cause 
and  would  not,  in  any  trial  or  danger,  forsake  him.  Joab 
and  Abishai  were  with  him,  who  had  been,  in  former  days, 
the  defence  of  his  kingdom  and  the  support  of  his  throne ; 


406  THE    FALL    OF    ABSALOM. 

with  Absalom,  it  was  far  different.  His  adherents  were 
principally  among  the  youth  who  are  generally  characterized 
for  their  blind  impetuosity  and  fatal  rashness,  and  his  cause, 
like  every  thing  built  on  popular  favor,  was  but  a  castle  in 
the  air.  Behold  now  a  King  venerable  for  his  years  and 
victories,  renowned  for  his  prowess  and  revered  for  his 
wisdom  and  piety,  reduced  to  the  condition  of  a  fugitive,  to 
the  necessity  of  fleeing  for  his  life  from  his  own  son. 

As  David  was  going  to  Mount  Olivet,  information  reached 
him  of  the  defection  of  Ahithophel.  A  vain  and  impetuous 
youth  was  not  an  object  of  much  terror  to  a  man  of  David's 
experience  and  skill.  But  the  popularity  and  numbers  of 
Absalom,  aided  by  the  consummate  prudence  and  skill  of 
Ahithophel,  could  not  fail  to  excite  apprehension.  David, 
however,  sunk  not  under  his  fears,  but  prayed  that  the  Most 
High  would,  in  mercy,  "turn  the  counsel  of  ahithophel 
INTO  FOOLISHNESS."  What  Can  give  prosperity  to  the  cause 
of  a  wicked  son  seeking  the  ruin  of  so  good  and  venerable  a 
father  !  Absalom  entered  Jerusalem  in  triumph,  at  the  head 
of  a  mulitude  as  abandoned  and  unprincipled  as  himself. 
He  had  indeed  a  man  with  him  whose  counsels  might  have 
sustained  a  throne  built  on  a  better  basis.  Ahithophel  advised 
the  usurper  to  send  twelve  thousand  men  immediately  in 
pursuit  of  David.  Had  his  counsel  been  followed,  in  all 
probability  the  ru-in  of  the  King  had  been  the  consequence : 
without  an  army,  David  must  have  been  overwhelmed  or 
driven  into  hopeless  exile. 

How  little  do  wicked  men  comprehend  the  causes  which 
are  secretly  working  their  ruin !  Hushai  the  Archite  advised 
that  all  Israel  should  be  first  assembled  before  pursuit  com- 
menced. This  advice  seemed  plausible  and  the  arguments 
he  drew  from  David's  known  courage  and  military  skill  and 
the  bravery  of  his  soldiers,  driven  to  desperation,  decided 
Absalom  to  delay  operations  till  he  had  drawn  together  the 
force  of  the  whole  nation.  This  gave  David  and  Joab  all 
the  time  they  wanted.  In  a  few  days  they  were  able  to  rally 
and  concentrate,  though  not  a  numerous-  yet  a  powerful  and 


THE    FALL    OF    ABSALOM.  407 

determined  band  of  worthies  and  heroes,  who  relied  on  the 
rectitude  of  their  cause  and  the  smiles  of  Heaven. 

Absalom  did  not  remain  idle,  but  made  levies  throughout 
all  the  tribes  of  Israel,  and  gathered  together  a  large  army. 
Every  thing  being  ready,  he  left  Jerusalem,  and,  marching 
his  army  across  the  Jordan,  he  went  in  pursuit  of  his  lather 
and  encamped  in  the  land  of  Giiead,  not  far  from  the  royal 
forces,  which  lay  at  Mahanaim.  David  resolved  not  to  wait 
his  coming  but  give  battle  at  once.  He  accordingly  marched 
his  army  out  of  the  city  where  they  were  encamped.  ^^ 

Now  comes  the  conflict  of  parental  feeling.  Though  h^P 
viewed  his  son  in  arms  against  him,  and  thirsting  for  his 
blood,  still  David  felt  all  the  tenderness  of  a  father,  and 
manifested  the  greatest  solicitude  for  the  preservation  of  his 
life,  should  the  battle  go  against  him.  When  therefore,  his 
three  generals,  Job,  Abishai  and  Ittai  took  leave  of  him,  he 
entreated  them  in  the  hearing  of  all  the  people,  to  •'  deal 
gently  with  his  son,  for  his  sake."  He  seems  to  have  clearly 
forseen  the  result  of  the  battle,  and  it  is  probable  from  his 
knowledge  of  war  and  the  skill  and  bravery  of  his  army, 
which  had  been  so  often  proved,  led  on  by  such  commanders 
as  well  as  from  the  rashness  and  folly  of  the  misguided 
Absalom — he  knew  to  a  moral  certainty,  how  the  battle 
would  issue;  or  he  might  have  had  a  divine  intimation. 

Soon  after  the  royal  army  took  the  field,  the  engagement 
began,  which  seems  to  have  been  an  obstinate  one.  The 
King  had  taken  his  station  by  the  gate  of  the  city  and  there 
anxiously  waited  the  event.  Few  situations  were  ever 
calculated  to  excite  such  a  tide  of  contending  passions  as 
passed  that  day  in  the  bosom  of  the  King  of  Israel.  The 
beautiful  and  beloved  Absalom  was  his  enemy — his  kingdom 
and  life  were  in  jeopardy.  If  Absalom  prevailed,  he  had 
nought  to  expect  but  an  ignominious  death — if  his  army 
proved  victorious,  Absalom  would  probably  fall  in  battle,  or 
live  only  to  embitter  his  last  days  with  the  recollection  of  his 
treachery. 

What  sudden  terror  dimmed  the  eye  and  well  nigh  stopped 


408  THE    FALL    OF    ABSALOM. 

the  breath  of  the  aged  monarch,  when  a  watchman  ran  down 
from  the  tower  and  cried  out  a  messenger  was  coming  in 
great  haste  over  the  plain.  And  lo,  he  was  followed  by  a 
second  messenger.  Breathless  with  haste  and  joy,  these 
messengers  made  their  way  to  the  King  and  announced  the 
victory  of  his  army.  When  Abimahaz  came  within  hearing, 
he  cried  out "  all  is  well"  and  prostrated  himself  before  the 
King.  David  immediately  inquired  of  him  whether  his  son 
Absalom  was  safe,  but  received  only  an  evasive  reply. 
Cushi  then  approached  and  repeated  the  joyful  tidings:  and 
upon  being  asked  whether  Absalom  were  safe,  he  replied  by 
expressing  the  wish  that  "  all  the  enemies  of  the  King  might 
be  as  that  young  man."  A  soldier  like  reply  indeed,  but  it 
was  like  a  dagger  to  the  heart  of  the  father.  The  grief 
occasioned  by  the  loss  of  his  son  was  an  overmatch  for  the 
joy  produced  by  the  victory.  He  retired  instantly  to  his 
chamber,  and  as  he  went,  he  crie^,  '•  Oh  my  son  Absalom  I 
my  son,  my  son  Absalom  !  Would  God  I  had  died  for  thee, 
O  Absalom,  my  son,  my  son  !" 

The  death  of  Absalom  was  as  dreadful  as  his  character 
had  been  vile.  He  went  to  the  field  of  battle  flushed  with  the 
hopes  of  victory:  but,  in  a  moment,  all  his  expectations  were 
blasted.  His  army  was  a  mixed  multitude  without  order, 
discipline  or  valor.  They  were  cut  down  before  the  brave 
troops  and  skilful  commanders  of  David ;  and  the  wretched 
Absalom,  while  endeavoring  to  escape,  was  apprehended  and 
slain  by  Joab,  the  stern  leader  of  David's  army.  Thus  fell 
this  guilty  paracide,  with  twenty  thousand  of  his  rebel 
adherents.  But,  alas,  nothing  could  assuague  the  grief  of 
David :  while  the  shouts  of  victory  resounded  through  his 
capital,  the  vulture  of  grief  was  preying  at  his  heart. 

The  history  of  Absalom  is  an  awful  beacon  to  young  men. 
It  teaches  them  the  danger  of  indulging  their  passions  and 
spurning  the  kind  influence  of  parental  discipline.  Many  a 
head  strong  wicked  youth  has  mourned  his  folly,  when  the 
fatal  consequences  of  his  conduct  have  been  all  concentrated 
and  fully  developed  in  a  death  of  infamy. 


LITTLE    BOYS    SHOULD   PRAY.  40(9 

Parents  also,  may  learn  from  this  painful  narrative,  what 
dreadful  evils  may  be  entailed  upon  their  children  and  fami- 
lies, by  their  own  wickedness  and  vices.  The  curse  of  God 
descended  -upon  the  family  of  Eii  for  his  unfaithfulness — the 
sin  of  David  brought  the  sword  upon  his  house.  Thus  many 
a  parent  has  brought  ruin  upon  his  household.  Here  also, 
parents  may  learn  the  sad  effects  of  improper  indulgence, 
not  combining  family  discipline  with  family  instruction. 
Thus,  pride  and  ambition  are  fostered  in  the  minds  of  the 
young,  and  they  become  an  easy  and  an  early  prey  to  vice. 
Here  too,  the  young  may  see  the  vanity  of  personal  beauty, 
while  the  soul  is  deformed  and  debased  by  vice,  and  the 
insufficiency  of  even  a  pious  education  without  personal 
religion.  Absalom  was  caught  by  his  flowing  tresses  in  the 
boughs  of  an  oak  endeavoring  to  escape,  and  thus  that  which 
had  been  his  pride,  proved  his  destruction.  The  charms  of 
youth  and  beauty  are  no  security  against  the  shafts  of  ad- 
versity and  the  power  of  God. 


LITTLE   BOYS    SHOULD   PRAY. 

A  little  boy,  only  four  years  of  age,  said  to  his  mother, 
while  undressing  for  sleep — 

"  Mother,  why  can't  I  make  a  prayer  myself?  I  can 
think  of  a  great  many  things  I  want  to  ask  God  for,  which 
are  not  in  the  little  prayer  I  always  say.  There  is  my  little 
cousin  William,  who  is  too  small  to  pray  for  himself;  I  want 
to  ask  God  to  make  him  a  good  boy.  There  are  other  things 
too  I  want  to  say." 

What  mother  would  not  rejoice  to  hear  this  ?  Parents, 
how  very  early  your  children  come  to  you  for  temporal 
things? — Teach  them  to  ask  God  as  early  for  spiritual 
blessings. 


410  SUMMEU    MIDNIGHT. 


SUMMER  MIDNIGHT. 


BT     J.     E.     D.     COMSTOCK. 

What  can  this  murmur  be  that  now  I  hear, 
As  at  this  solemn  hour  I  pause  to  catch 

The  echoes  that  may  fall  upon  the  ear, — 
So  low  and  undefined  it  were  a  match, 

Almost,  for  the  dread  silence  of  the  bier ! 

Is't  the  flowers  breathing  out  their  midnight  watch ! 

0  God  !  whate'er  this  lowly  voice  may  be, 
Methinks  it  warns  me  of  eternity. 

Why  doth  my  heart  so  love  the  beauteous  world  ? 

Where  now  its  hopes  that  have  so  cheated  me  ? 
O,  toiling  man !  could'st  thou  but  see  unfurled 

The  record  of  thy  future  destiny, 
How  would  thy  heart  from  its  high  place  be  hurled ! 

Creator !  I  would  bow  myself  to  thee — 
Thou  wilt  not  spurn  me.     Thou  wilt  keep  the  trust 
E'en  when  this  heart  and  those  it  loves  are  dust. 

1  cast  my  gaze  above ;  to  yon  blue  field 

Of  mystery  and  of  glory,  where  the  stars 
In  wondrous  multitudes  walk  forth  and  yield 

Their  music  to  the  loved  God.     There  Mars, 
And  Jupiter,  and  Venus  are,  and  wield 

The  sceptre  mild,  until  the  Queen  unbars 
Her  golden  gates,  and  to  the  throne  aspires ; 
And,  as  she  comes,  each  subject  half  retires. 

There  are,  I  think,  soft  voices  in  the  sky. 

And  tones  suppressed,  that  now  make  up  the  solemn 
Chime  of  night.     Lo !  here  the  wild  stream  doth  hie, 

Here  rock  and  glade — the  open,  only  volume 
Perused  by  sylvan  tribes :  and  though  my  eye 

Doth  meet  no  mossy  tower  or  crumbling  column, 
Yet  here  the  grave,  the  battle-field  and  mound 
Of  the  wild  aborigines  are  found. 


SqMMBR    MIDNIGHT.  411 

The  flight  of  generations ! — what  a  tone 

Awful  and  sad  it  breathes,  as  now  I  bend 
My  timid  ear  and  listen — all  alone ! 

Back  to  those  ancient  scenes  my  thoughts  I'll  send ; 
My  heart  doth  dwell  upon  the  past :  the  groan 

And  whoop  no  more  upon  these  hills  shall  blend — 
But  now  in  peace  pass  on  the  plough  and  harrow, 
Through  vales  where  spoke  the  gun  and  flew  the  arrow  I 

How  solemn  now !  'tis  midnight  on  the  plain, 

Reflections  solemn  do  pervade  my  mind  3 — 
The  cup  of  life  ! — its  contents  I  must  drain ; 

And  when  I  come  to  cast  a  look  behind, 
Upon  the  past,  the  pleasure  and  f^ie  pain. 

And  see  so  well  how  weak  I've  been,  and  blind, 
O,  how  I  shrink  to  tread  the  way  before  me. 
Until  I  feel  that  God  is  watching  o'er  me. 


FAMILY    LOVE. 

BY      LAMARTINE. 

The  spirit  of  family  is  the  second  soul  of  humanity. 
Modern  legislators  have  too  much  forgotten  this.  They 
think  only  of  nations  and  individuals.  They  omit  the  family, 
that  only  source  of  a  pure  and  healthy  population  ;  the  sanc- 
tuary of  traditions  and  manners,  in  which  all  the  social  vir- 
tues acquire  fresh  vigor.  Legislation,  even  since  the  intro- 
duction of  Christianity,  has  been  barbarous  in  this  respect. 
It  repulses  man  from  the  spirit  of  family,  instead  of  encour- 
aging it  in  him.  It  interdicts,  to  one  half  of  mankind,  wife, 
child,  the  possession  of  a  home  or  a  field.  It  owes  these 
blessings  to  all,  as  soon  as  they  arrive  at  manhood.  It  ought 
to  have  interdicted  them  only  to  culprits.  A  family  is  soci- 
ety in  miniature  ;  but  it  is  that  society  in  which  the  laws  are 
natural,  because  they  are  sentiments.  To  interdict  a  man 
from  the  possession  of  family  comforts,  should  have  been  the- 
greatest  reprobation,  the  last  punishment  of  the  law. 


412  LETTERS    FROM    A    HOLLOW    TREE. 

Original. 

LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE. 

I  AM  now  ready,  my  young  friends,  to  enter  upon  the  his- 
tory I  spoke  of  in  my  last.  It  happened  one  morning,  about 
a  year  ago,  that  as  I  was  walking  very  leisurely  through  the 
woods,  I  was  attracted  towards  a  thicket  from  whence  issued 
a  cry,  as  of  some  bird  in  great  distress.  I  hastened  to  the 
spot,  and  found  a  large  male  raven  with  his  leg  broken,  flut- 
tering helpless  upon  the  ground.  The  female  was  by  his 
side,  and  apparently  making  every  exertion  to  assist  him  to 
rise  upon  the  wing ;  but  all  to  no  purpose.  He  only  moaned 
more  piteously  as  he  extended  the  injured  limb,  looked  at  it 
a  moment,  then  into  the  eyes  of  his  mate,  as  if  he  would  say, 
*'  It  is  of  no  use ;"  and,  with  that  thought,  had  surrendered 
himself  to  despair.  There  was  something  so  intelligent  in 
these  actions — so  like  the  feelings  and  sympathies  of  human 
beings,  that  my  interest  was  instantly  aroused.  I  kept  my- 
self perfectly  quiet,  however,  that  I  might  the  better  observe 
their  motions. 

Finding  it  impossible  to  induce  her  mate  to  follow  her,  the 
female  soon  flew  off"  alone ;  and,  after  some  time,  returned 
with  a  small  quantity  of  food,  which  she  gave  up  wholly  to 
her  sick  friend ;  and,  as  if  conscious  that  his  weakness  had 
disabled  him,  she  broke  it  in  pieces,  and  prepared  it  for  mas- 
tication, as  a  careful  nurse  renders  like  attentions  to  the  hu- 
man invalid.  There  was  something  very  beautiful  in  these 
little  acts  of  love  ;  and  her  mate  thought  so  too  ;  for  though 
he  appeared  exceedingly  hungry,  and  ate  ravenously,  he 
paused  every  now  and  then  to  caress  his  partner,  rubbing 
his  beak  lovingly  over  her  glossy  black  head,  and  looking  up 
to  her  with  eyes  so  intelligently  bright,  they  had  actually  be- 
come human  in  their  grateful  expression. 

I  W£is  standing  close  to  them,  yet  unperceived.     As  soon 


LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE.  415 

as  this  tender  scene  was  over,  I  gently  removed  the  bushes, 
and,  stooping  down,  laid  my  hand  softly  on  the  suffering  bird, 
lifting  him  from  the  ground.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the 
agitation  and  distress  of  the  female  when  this  was  done.  She 
flew  round  and  round  me,  sometimes  darting  at  my  face  and 
vociferating  angrily  ;  then  dropping  almost  at  my  feet,  and 
uttering  the  most  plaintive  and  beseeching  cries. 

I  have  ever  found  a  wonderful  power  over  inferior  ani- 
mals in  the  acts  and  expressions  of  manifest  kindness  ;  but 
especially  in  the  human  voice,  .when  it  is  softened  by  the 
sweet  tones  of  pity  and  love,  there  is  a  magnetic  principle, 
which  is  sufficient,  in  itself,  to  allay  the  wildest  fury  of  anger, 
and  soothe  the  fiercest  passions  into  confidence  and  peace  , 
and  these  powers  increase  tenfold,  when  we  act  with  full 
faith  in  their  efficacy. 

I  sat  down  quietly  upon  the  ground,  and  placing  the  in- 
jured bird  so  as  to  be  least  uncomfortable,  passed  my  hand 
tenderly  over  the  head  and  back  of  the  sufferer,  repeating 
softly,  '*^Poor  bird  !  Poor  birdie  !"  Then  taking  some  bits  of 
bread  and  grains  from  my  pocket,  which  I  seldom  go  out  un- 
provided with,  I  held  them  conveniently  for  him  to  eat,  and 
also  scattered  some  before  the  female,  who  had  seated  herself 
on  a  hazel-bush  close  by,  and  was  eyeing  me  wistfully,  as  if 
determined  to  understand  the  whole  philosophy  of  the  matter, 
I  should  say  here  that  the  raven  is  an  omniverous  bird,  and 
will,  when  hungry,  feed  upon  almost  any  kind  of  food  that 
falls  in  its  way. 

So  I  continued  my  low,  soothing  words,  and  gentle  ca- 
resses, until  the  male  became  quite  confident,  and  picked  the 
grains  fearlessly  from  my  hand.  Nor  was  the  female  slow 
in  perceiving  this ;  but  after  a  few  doubtful  hops,  back  and 
forth,  as  if  deliberating  upon  the  propriety  of  the  measure, 
she  actually  perched  upon  my  wrist,  and  ate  along  with  her 
companion  from  my  hand. 

I  determined  then  to  take  the  sick  bird  home  with  me,  bind 
up  the  broken  limb,  and  protect  him  until  it  was  well.  When 
I  first  rose  to  depart,  the  female  resumed  her  former  cries  of 


^$ 


414  LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE. 

anger  and  distress ;  but  I  also  renewed  the  soothing  pro- 
cesses, and  finally  sang  a  sweet  tender  air,  during  which  the 
little  patient  kept  up  a  kind  of  falsetto  accompaniment,  thai 
seemed  expressive  of  agreeable  sensations ;  and  the  female 
hovered  along  my  path  in  silence. 

The  leg  was  longer  in  healing  than  I  had  imagined  it 
would  be ;  but  during  the  process  both  birds  had  become  per- 
fectly tame,  and  they  manifested  a  degree  of  intelligence 
which  I  have  seldom  seen  equaled  by  any  of  the  inferior 
animals. 

Very  soon  their  wonderful  aptitude  for  imitating  human 
speech  began  to  be  developed  ;  and  they  learned  to  repeat 
words,  and  even  short  sentences,  very  intelligibly.  The  first 
time  that  I  came  to  notice  this  power,  I  was  quite  startled. 
It  was  a  fine  morning,  and  I  was  very  busily  engaged  at  work 
in  my  garden.  I  first  heard  a  few  low  running  notes  of  mu- 
sic, as  if  hummed  by  the  human  voice,  and  supposed  it  was 
my  mocking  bird,  for  he  was  full  of  these  little  spontaneous 
solos.  Short  snatches  of  an  air  were  repeated  several  times, 
which  I  recognized  as  portions  of  the  same  I  had  sung  on 
the  morning  the  ravens  were  found ;  and  then  I  distinctly 
heard  the  words,  "  Poor  bird  !  Poor  birdie !"  repeated  at 
short  intervals.  I  dropped  my  spade  and  hastened  to  the 
spot,  thinking  to  meet  a  human  visitor,  but  what  was  my  sur- 
prise to  find  the  female  raven  caressing  her  mate,  precisely 
as  I  had  done,  and  repeating  the  words,  which  I  before 
observed  had  become  the  favorite  expressions  of  regard  which 
they  were  most  anxious  to  win  from  their  benefactor.  My 
delight  at  this  discovery  can  hardly  be  expressed  ;  and  thence- 
forth commenced  a  regular  scholarship  in  English.  I  had 
fine  pupils  I  assure  you,  and  the  mutual  confidence  and  affec- 
tion of  the  parties  was  from  that  hour  greatly  strengthened. 

The  birds  were  both  left  perfectly  free ;  but  after  the  pa- 
tient was  quite  restored,  they  continued  to  lodge  occasion- 
ally in  the  basket  which  had  sheltered  the  convalescent,  and 
were  ever  after  familiar  inmates  of  my  premises,  being  as 
meat  as  parrots.     My  Carolinas,  indeed,  were,  for  a  time, 


LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE.  415 

quite  jealous  of  these  new  rivals  in  the  accomplishment  of 
speaking,  and  made  settled  war  upon  them  whenever  they 
met.  But  I  soon  succeeded  in  quelling  the  disturbances ; 
and  harmony  once  more  prevailed. 

I  named  my  ravens,  Bonny  and  Donny.  These  they  soon 
learned  ;  and  it  was  pleasant  and  wonderful  to  hear  them 
call  each  other  so  intelligently  by  their  new  titles.  The  ra- 
ven, perhaps  you  may  have  read,  is  the  most  mischievous  of 
birds;  and  I  soon  found  it  necessary  to  watch  them  very 
closely.  Some  of  their  tricks  of  theft  were  highly  amusing  ; 
but  I  must  not  stop  to  repeat  many  of  them,  for  I  have  nei- 
ther time  nor  space.  Before  I  thought  any  thing  of  this  pro- 
pensity, I  found  one  day  that  several  of  my  cabinets  were 
nearly  dismantled.  I  directly  suspected  the  cause,  and  de- 
termined to  watch  the  birds  when  they  next  flew  away ;  for 
I  knew  their  strange  passion  for  hoarding,  and  so  I  hoped  to 
recover  my  lost  treasures.  To  this  end  I  permitted  them  to 
have  free  access  to  my  cabinet,  and  it  was  not  long  before  I 
saw  them  enter,  from  the  spot  where  I  had  concealed  my- 
self. They  went  directly  to  the  cabinet,  one  taking  up  a 
shell,  the  other  a  mineral,  and  away  they  flew.  I  pursued 
with  the  best  speed  I  could  make  through  the  woods.  For- 
tunately, their  place  of  deposite  was  a  hollow  tree  near  at 
hand;  I  saw  them  enter,  drop  their  specimens,  and  fly  away ; 
but  I  had  secured  the  doors  so  as  to  prevent  their  returning, 
and  I  now  prepared  to  dislodge  their  collection.  Not  only 
did  I  find  there  all  the  lost  gems  of  my  cabinet,  but  number- 
less articles  I  had  either  never  thought  much  about,  or  never 
missed.  There  were  pens,  pencils,  quills,  pieces  of  paper, 
letters,  fragments  of  earthen  ware,  cloth  and  vegetables ; 
knives,  forks,  spoons,  candle-ends,  bits  of  sealing-wax,  gar- 
den seeds,  shells,  minerals,  old  nightcaps,  antique  coins, 
cravats,  medalions,  and  old  stockings.  I  could  not  forbear 
laughing,  in  spite  of  my  vexation,  as  I  drew  forth  the  strange 
admixture,  when  I  heard  a  laugh  just  above  me,  as  if  in  mim- 
icry ;  and  sure  enough  there  was  the  saucy  raven,  Bonny, 
laughing  at  the  mischief  he  had  done.     He  alighted  on  the 


416  LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE. 

pile,  and  began  hopping  to  and  fro,  in  a  manner  that  showed 
he  enjoyed  the  joke  mightily — chattering  all  the  while  with 
great  rapidity  of  utterance,  as  they  always  do  when  much 
pleased. 

" Ah,  you  rogue !"  said  I,  "it  is  you,  is  it?"  Then  I  re- 
peated more  gravely,  "  Bonny  steal." 

"  DoNNY  steal  ;"  he  replied,  turning  one  eye  up  at  me 
roguishly,  and  emphasising  the  first  syllable. 

"Bonny  steal,  too,"  was  quickly  retorted  ;  and  the  female 
hopped  on  .to  my  hand,  and  looked  me  full  in  the  face,  with 
the  confidence  a  favorite  always  knows  how  to  assume. 

How  he  got  the  word  I  know  not ;  but  the  male,  as  if  con- 
scious of  being  beaten  from  one  track,  he  had  resolved  to 
sustain  another,  cried  out  triumphantly,  "  Man  steal !" — And 
*'  Man  steal !"  repeated  his  mate.  And  then  they  broke  into 
a  full  chorus,  "  Man  steal !  Man  steal  !"  which  they  uttered 
most  exultingly,  as  if  conscious  that  it  should  put  the  finale 
on  the  whole  affair. 

"  Well,  this  is  human  nature,"  I  said,  *'  in  good  earnest — 
one  sinner  casting  his  offence  upon  another ;  and  when  that 
fails,  bringing  in  the  whole  world  to  keep  him  company,  as 
if  the  general  guilt  brought  individual  exculpation." 

I  ventured  to  chastise  them  for  these  offences  ;  and  finally 
broke  them  up  entirely.  They  built  their  nest  that  year  in 
the  fork  of  a  tall  black  hickory  not  far  from  my  residence, 
on  a  steep  declivity.  The  nest  of  the  raven  is  composed  of 
dry  sticks  rudely  piled  together,  and  is  occupied  year  after 
year,  being  repaired  when  necessary,  but  never  pulled  down 
or  forsaken.  Last  spring  they  returned  to  the  same  brood- 
ing-place, and  I  regarded  them  as  completely  domesticated. 

You  have,  doubtless,  heard  this  bird  spoken  of  as  one  of 
evil  omen,  and  have  felt  something  of  the  common  prejudice 
against  it ;  so  you  may  be  surprised  when  I  tell  you,  that  to 
its  young,  and  its  mate,  it  is  the  most  affectionate  and  con- 
stant of  all  birds.  It  will  exhibit  courage  entirely  beyond 
its  strength  in  defence  of  its  young,  and  not  unfrequently  has 
it  been  known  to  die  of  grief  for  the  loss  of  its  mate. 


GERANIUM    AND    LYSIWACHIA    BULBIFERA. 


LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE.  417 

Knowing  these  traits  of  character,  and  loving  my  birds 
beyond  measure,  I  was  greatly  pained  to  hear  that  a  neigh- 
boring timber  dealer  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  prairie  tree 
they  occupied,  and  that  it  was  to  be  cut  down.     I  carried  the 
point  so  far  as  to  walk  several  m'.les  to  pray  the  gentleman's 
forbearance,  that  my  little  protegees  might  be  left  undis- 
turbed for  a  week,  when  1  hoped  their  callow  young  might 
be  fledged,  and  ready  to  leave  the  nest.     But  my  effort  was 
wholly  vain,  and  I  was  only  laughed  at  as  a  weak  enthusi- 
ast ;  and  disappointed,  I  returned   home.  •   The  tree  was  to 
be  felled  the  next  day,  and  with  the  early  dawn  I  sorrow- 
fully hastened  to  the  spot.     The  female  was  sitting  on  the 
nest,  and  with  the  first  stroke  of  the  axe  she  became  alarmed, 
and  left  her  covert.     At  first  she  exhibited   much  agitation, 
flying  round  and  round  the  top  of  the  tree,  then,  descending 
lower,  she  made  a  variety  of  short  curves,  at  every  turn  ap- 
proaching still  nearer  to  the  wood-cutter.     At  this  time  the 
male,  who  had  gone   in  quest  of  food,  returned  laden*  with 
viands.     There  was  such  a  family  look  in  this,  that  to  attack 
them  seemed  really  savage.     It  was  like  a  gentleman  return- 
ing home  with  his  market  basket  on  his  arm,  and  finding  a 
company  of  wild  Indians  had  attacked  his  helpless  family 
during  his  absence.     Mr.  Raven  seemed  to  have  much  the 
same  feeling;  for  as  soon  as  he  perceived  what  was  going 
on,  he  dropped  the  food  from  his  beak,  and  uttering  a  fierce 
cry,  darted  angrily  at  the  man.     The  latter  struck  at  him, 
and  though  he  missed  his  aim,  he  yet  made  such  a  show  of 
force,  that  the  bird  retreated.     Hovering  by  the  side  of  his 
mate,  who  had  perched  on  a  limb  of  the  tree,  he  caressed 
her  a  moment,  with  a  low  encouraging  note,  as  if  to  com- 
fort and  reassure  her,  then  rushed  again  to  the  attack,  show- 
ing a  bravery  in  the  defence  of  his  family  and  home,  which 
few  heroes  ever  equaled,  and  none  have  surpassed.     Even 
the  poor  wood-cutter  was  affected  by  their  touching  cries 
of  distress  ;  but  his  orders  were  peremptory,  and  the  work 
went  on. 

To  my  surprise  the  female  returned  to  the  nest.     At  first 


418  LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE. 

ghe  would  remain  only  a  few  seconds,  then  leave  it  and  fly 
around,  with  cries  and  motions  ail  expressive  of  the  wildest 
alarm.  Finally,  she  seemed  gradually  to  become  resigned  to 
her  fate.  The  maternal  instinct  triumphed  over  natural  fear. 
She  returned  to  her  callow  brood  that  were  doubtless  hurt  by 
the  jarring  blows,  for  they  were  chirping  piteously ;  and 
spreading  over  them  the  covert  of  her  protecting  wings,  she 
strove  by  low  sweet  notes  to  comfort  them.  With  every 
blow  that  was  struck  I  expected  her  to  leave  the  nest ;  but 
she  came  no  more  away.  My  interest  in  the  scene  was  by 
this  time  wrought  up  to  a  pitch  of  anxiety  really  painful. 
Would  she  leave  the  nest,  or  would  she  remain  and  perish 
with  her  young  ?  The  tree  was  more  than  half  cut  through. 
I  could  just  see  her  glossy  black  head  peeping  from  under  a 
tuft  of  moss,  and  taking  a  small  spy-glass  from  my  pocket,  I 
found  that  her  eyes  were  shut,  except  when  her  mate  came 
near ;  for  he  was  continually  flying  with  sharp  zigzag 
motjpns  to  the  nest,  when  he  would  pause  a  moment,  with  a 
low  whisper  of  love,  then  fly  back  to  the  man,  whom  he 
quite  nearly  approached  several  times.  As  he  did  so  his 
note  would  change,  sometimes  to  one  of  angry  defiance,  then 
to  a  deep  mournful  cry,  as  if  imploring  mercy. 

The  tree  tottered.  The  mother-bird  sat  quite  still,  but.the 
father  came  to  her  side  with  a  quick  wild  note  of  alarm, 
flying  backwards  and  forwards  with  great  rapidity,  as  if 
entreating  lier  to  escape.  But  she  could  not  be  won  from 
her  determination.  Passing  her  bill  lovingly  over  her  compan- 
ion's head  and  neck,  as  if  giving  the  farewell  kiss  of  love, 
her  drooping  lids  again  fell;  and  the  world  was  shut  out 
forever.  By  this  time  the  agitation  of  the  male  amounted  to 
frenzy.  He  darted  to  and  fro  in  the  air  with  the  most 
passionate  cries,  as  if  he  knew  that  his  eloquence  was  all  in 
vain,  and  had  surrendered  himself  to  despair.  Then  there 
was  a  sharp  crack  from  the  wrenching  fibres;  and  with 
a  heavy  crash  the  tree  fell  quite  down  the  declivity.  As  it 
first  tottered  from  the  base.  Bonny  darted  after  the  nest 
with  the  rapidity  of  lightning ;  and  with  such  speed  as  I 


LETTERS  FROM  A  HOLLOW  TREE.  419 

could  make,  I  also  hastened  to  the  relief,  followed  by  the  old 
wood-cutter.  The  nest  had  unfortunately  fallen  under  ;  and 
on  removing  some  of  the  protruding 'limbs,  we  found  the 
mother  and  young  quite  crushed.  -  We  carried  the  dead 
birds  to  a  little  distance ;  and  then  came  the  bereaved  one, 
without  fear  to  his  mate,  and  perched  on  the  ground  beside 
her.  It  is  impossible  to  give  any  competent  idea  of  the  dis- 
tress and  anxiety  he  exhibited.  At  first,  however,  he  seemed 
to  be  full  of  hope  ;  for  with  great  labor  he  attempted  to  place 
her  in  an  erect  position,  lifting  her  with  his  beak,  and  support- 
ing her  as  she  leaned  against  a  fragment  of  the  tree.  Then 
he  locked  his  beak  lovingly  with  hers,  trying  to  fix  the  head 
in  its  natural  position,  addressing  her  at  the  same  time  with 
a  low  querulous  note,  that  seemed  to  inquire  why.  she  did  not 
look  up  and  answer  him.  But  when  he  saw  the  head  fall 
again  helpless  and  all  awry,  he  looked  upon  her  wistfully  a 
moment,  as  if  striving  fully  to  comprehend  the  matter,  then 
darted  away — and  was  gone  so  long  I  thought  he  would  not 
return.  But  to  my  surprise  he  came  back  again,  appearing 
much  calmer  than  before,  though  his  whole  air  was  very 
mournful,  and  he  was  quite  silent.  He  sat  down  at  a  little 
distance,  looking  alternately  from  her  to  me,  as  if  he  would 
tell  his  friend  of  his  misfortune,  and  ask  for  sympathy. 
There  was  something  infinitely  touching  in  this  mute  appeal ; 
and  almost  unconsciously,  I  said,  "  Poor  Donny  die  !"  when 
he  very  distinctively  repeated  my  words.  I  confess  I  was 
surprised  myself;  and  the  poor  wood-cutter  was  actually 
terrified,  as  well  as  touched  with  pity. 

"  I  declare,"  he  said,  passing  the  back  of  his  rough  hand 
over  his  eyes,"  them  birds  seems  like  human  critters  ;  and  if 
I'd  known  it  afore,  I  would'nt  ha'  cut  the  tree  down — no,  not 
for  the  Bank  of  the  United  States,  poor  as  I  be." 

Bonny  seemed  to  catch  at  once  the  change  of  feeling  from 
the  softening  voice ;  and  as  if  determined  to  preserve  his 
advantage,  he  kept  repeating  with  the  mournfullest  accents, 
"  Poor  Donny  die  !" 

I  carried  the  little  heroine  home,  and  gave  her  honorable 


420  A  mother's  hand. 

sepulture  in  a  corner  of  my  garden  ;  and  there  her  mate 
mourned  for  her,  A^ith  the  self  devotion  of  a  single  and 
loving  heart.  He  had  many  proffers  of  wedlock  from  the 
fairest  birds  of  his  own  kind  ;  but  he  was  true  to  his  first 
love,  and  never  chose  another.  So  he  pined  aw^ay  ;  becoming 
every  day  more  sorrowful  ;  and  when  the  season  of  incuba- 
tion came  round,  his  melancholy  deepened — he  ate  less,  and 
was  evidently  fast  declining.  He  kept  up  almost  continually 
his  sad  ele<:riac  strain — ffrowino:  ever  fainter  and  fainter. 
One  evening  he  perched  on  my  hand,  and  looking  up  in  my 
face  with  a  most  singular  expression,  he  repeated,  "  Poor 
Donny  die  f"  and  flew  away  to  his  perch  over  the  haunted 
grave.  This  was  the  full  sum  of  his  earthly  sorrow.  I  do 
not  think  he  ever  spoke  more ;  and  I  never  again  saw  him 
alive. 

The  next  morning  I  found  him  dead,  with  his  wings 
stretched  upon  the  grave,  as  if  he  had  sought  with  his  last 
act  to  embrace  the  dear  remains  of  her,  for  whom  his  faith- 
ful heart  was  broken. 


A    MOTHER'S    HAND. 

Did  you  ever  awaken,  while  on  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  find 
a  mother's  hand  pressed  upon  your  forehead  ?  It  is  pleasant 
thus  to  wake  from  a  dream,  even  when  affliction  is  on  you. 
You  are  assured  that  you  have  at  least  one  friend,  and  that 
THAT  friend  is  a  true  one.  You  are  assured,  that  if  you 
never  go  forth  into  the  world,  you  will  die  lamented ;  and 
when  pain  and  distress  are  on  you,  such  an  assurance  is  con- 
soling. At  such  a  time,  you  can  read  more  fully  a  mother's 
feelings  than  a  tongue  can  express  them.  The  anxiety  with 
which  she  gazes  upon  you — the  tenderness  with  which  she 
sympathizes  with  you — the  willingness  with  which  she  sup- 
plies your  wants — all  serve  to  indicate  the  secret  workings 
of  her  heart. 


WOMEN    OF    AMERICA.  421 

Original. 

WOMEN   OF   AMERICA. 

BY     MRS.      L  .     G  .     A  B  E  L  L  . 

There  is  much  in  the  national  character  of  American 
Females  to  call  forth  admiration.  If  we  trace  them  back  to 
the  Pilgrim  landing  place  on  the  shore  of  wintry  wild  New 
England,  we  find  them  exemplifying  those  amiable  virtues 
which  are  ever  their  brightest  ornaments.  Not  pining  with 
unavailing  regret  for  the  home  of  comfort  they  had  left — 
asking  nothing — claiming  nothing  that  would  deter  fi'om  the 
performance  of  a  single  duty — giving  up,  with  a  Martyr 
spirit,  the  luxuries,  the  elegancies,  and  the  endearing 
associations  of  early  life,  in  an  old  and  civilized  country,  for 
the  cold  and  snowy  wilderness  of  America! 

While  we  love  to  dwell  upon  that  event,  connected  as  it  is 
with  us  by  the  most  sacred  considerations,  let  us  draw  aside 
the  curtain  of  that  thrilling  drama,  and  notice  with  feelings 
of  peculiar  tenderness  the  circle  of  devoted  females  that  bore 
their  share  in  the  perils  of  that  scene.  Unaccustomed  to 
the  rigour  of  this  climate — some  of  them  nurtured  amid  the 
I'^efinements  of  a  "  palace  home,"  yet  shrinking  not  from 
privations  to  which  they  were  here  subjected ;  cheerful  and 
full  of  hope — uncomplaining  in  their  new  and  trying  duties — 
inspiring  with  courage  by  their  own  fortitude  to  endure. 
Their  piety  so  sincere  and  ardent,  that  sufferings,  and  even 
DEATH,  were  borne  without  a  murmur  of  regret  that  they  had 
become  exiles  for  the  injured  cause  of  their  blessed  Master. 
It  is  a  scene  of  moral  grandeur  that  the  world  has  seldom 
exhibited,  and  upon  which  we  may  look  with  profit. 

The  impulse  given  by  the  first  women  of  America  was 
felt  upon  the  hearts  of  those  energetic,  enterprising,  and 
patriotic    females    of   revolutionary    limes,  and    were   the 


422  WOMHir   OF    AMERICA. 

condition  of  our  country  such  as  to  require  it,  there  would 
STILL  BE  EVIDENCE  that  thosc'  peculiar  traits  had  been  nothing 
impaired  by  the  lapse  of  years.  Change  of  condition, 
kixury,  and  abundance  have  concealed,  or  obscured  them 
from  public  gaze,  but  in  the  domestic  circle — in  the  .sanctity 
of  private  life  they  are  still  operating  with  gentlest  power, 
and  are  coursing  with  unabated  energy  through  all  the 
channels  of  social  existence.  Amid  the  sorrows  that  often 
press  hard  upon  her  bosom,  we  see  her  the  enduring  and 
uncomplaining  woman  still.  If  circumstances  require  the 
sacrifice,  she  is  wearing  out  her  life  in  toil  and  hardships, 
shrinking  not  from  any  burden  or  any  woe  that  is  found  in 
her  "  lot"  to  bear.  If  her  heart  has  been  purified  from  its 
native  depravity,  a  warmer  bene\'t)lence  glows  in  her 
bosom,  and  she  looks  beyond  the  peaceful  dominion  of  her 
own  dear  family  for  opportunities  of  doing  good  to  others. 
A  kindly  word  spoken  "  in  season"  has  lightened  the  burden 
of  many  a  dejected  spirit.  A  pittance  to  the  destitute  and 
needy,  and  the  kind  remembrance  of  those  forgotten  by 
others,  bear  testimony  to  her  sympathizing  and  timely  atten- 
tions, while  she  is  ever  delighting  to  send  comfort  where  its 
cheering  influence  is  seldom  felt.  Her  natural  qualities 
shine  with  a  brighter  lustre,  and  are  radiant  with  love  to  the 
whole  human  family. 

In  opinions  and  conduct  she  is  swayed  by  the  holy  princi- 
ples of  the  Bible  ;  her  motto  is  "do  unto  others  as  ye  would 
they  should  do  to  you,"  and  with  its  heavenly  influences 
operating  upon  her  heart — influences  of  more  than  goldBN 
VALUE,  the  degradation,  the  wretchedness  of  her  sex  in 
heathen  lands,  has  awakened  her  sympathies  and  aroused  her 
energies  ;  and  what  has  not  been  sacrificed  to  benefit  and 
save !  In  this  our  own  country,  there  are  many  noble 
monuments  of  her  active  and  untiring  benevolence,  while  its 
silent  and  fertilizing  streams  are  flowing  by  her  instrumen- 
tality from  every  village  and  hamlet  in  our  land.  Her  moral 
COURAGE  is  often  put  to. a  serious  and  painful  test,  as  she 
is  called  upon  to  prove  the  strength  of  her  principles  hf 


WOMEN    OF    AMERICA.  423 

taking  a  decided  stand  against  whatever  is  wrong  in  senti- 
ment and  practice  in  the  daily  walks  ofsoci.nl  life.  Fashion- 
able amusements  she  is  aware  have  a  hardening,  paralyzing 
influence  on  the  minds  of  the  young,  absorbing  their  noble 
faculties,  and  excluding  all  thought  of  their  higher  and  future 
destinies.  She  is,  therefore,  induced  to  exclude  them  from 
her  own  dwelling,  and  if  she  meet  them  amid  the  circles  of 
her  friends,  a  silent  withdrawal  is  a  language  that  is  felt, 
and  that  vibrates  on  the  consciences  of  the  weaker  and 
FRAiLEa  of  her  sex,  and  is  the  best  testimony  she  bears 
against  the  custom. 

Much  that  is  wrong  is  averted — or  corrected  by  the  gentle 
firmness,  the  decision,  and  the  strength  of  her  religious  prin- 
ciples. She  knows  not  her  power,  though  her  influence 
is  felt  in  the  remotest  nerve  of  Society.  She  never  attempts 
any  thing  to  gain  notoriety,  but  only  to  be  useful,  and 
would  not  if  she  could,  occupy  any  other  than  the  quiet  and 
protected  station  allotted  her,  thankful  that  she  is  not  ex- 
posed to  the  conflicts  of  public  life. 

In  the  cause  of  virtue,  her  efforts  are  unceasingly  made 
on  the  minds  of  her  children,  to  establish  correct  habits  and 
pure  principles,  to  overcome  all  the  evils  that  her  ever- 
watchful  "  following  eye"  may  chance  to  discover ;  not  fear- 
ing to  frown  upon  vice  in  its  various  forms.  She  is  always 
happy  and  pleased  when  she  has  made  the  effort  to  please 
others,  and  from  this  source  she  derives  continual  and 
reflected  pleasures.  Her  heart  has  become  responsive  to 
the  claims  of  domestic  life,  and  as  she  goes  about  in  her 
accustomed  avocations,  the  wing  of  peace  seems  to  be 
kindly  over  her,  producing  emotions  like  the  blending  tones 
of  melting  harmony. 

A  delicate  and  correct  taste  is  a  source  of  inexhaustible 
enjoyment,  and  a  very  important  ingredient  of  female  charac- 
ter ;  this  she  cultivates  with  unremitting  care.  It  controls 
her  pleasures,  fashions  her  opinions,  gives  a  quick  percep- 
tion of  the  beautiful  in  Nature  and  Art — and  at  the  same  time 
prevents  the  adoption  of  many  of  the  changes  and  incon- 


424  WOMEN    OF    AMERICA, 

gruities  of  manners  and  dress.  It  gives  to  thought  and  con- 
dact  propriety,  and  that  kind  of  independence  that  dares  to 
be  governed  by  a  sense  of  comfort  and  convenience  rather 
than  the  despotism  of  Fashion,  In  her  reading  she  wastes 
not  her  sympathies  with  the  flood-tide  of  fictitious  works 
teeming  from  the  press — finding  a  "  cheap  passage"  to 
every  part  of  our  country — but  the  efforts  of  nobler  and 
purer  minds  occupy  her  leisure  and  ca*use  a  deeper  thrill  of 
pleasure,  and  a  more  lasting  sense  of  benefit.  She  is  ever 
cultivating  her  intellectual  powers  as  the  talent  committed 
to  her  care,  for  which,  ere  long,  she  must  give  account.  This 
makes  her  diligent  in  the  discharge  of  her  various  duties, 
giveB  a  priceless  value  to  time,  leads  to  a  better  and  more 
thorough  knowledge  of  domestic  economy,  and  although  it  is 
often  snid,  that  a  "  woman  cannot  be  what  she  should  in 
domestic  life,  and  cultivate  a  literary  taste  or  pursue  its 
employments."  yet  by  the  discipline  of  her  mind  to  the 
habit,  she  proves  her  ability  to  prosecute  the  two  objects 
successfully. 

The  words  of  the  slanderer  are  to  her  as  idle  tales;  she 
heeds  them  not,  nor  suffers  her  opinions  to  be  influenced  by 
the  jealousieis,  the  dark  insinuations,  or  the  more  open  ex- 
pressions of  malice  or  bitterness.  Over  the  faults  of  human 
nature  she  casts  the  concealing  robe  of  charity,  while  upon 
its  crimes  she  looks  wilh  just  abhorrence  and  pity.  She 
binds  not  one  single  virtue  to  her  bosom,  but  embraces  them 
all  with  a  loving  spirit,  while  they  shed  their  heavenly 
influences  upon  her  character.  If  she  whispers  a  word  of 
kind  encouragement  to  the  timid  or  doubting,  it  is  to  strengthen 
them  in  doing  right.  Her  heart  is  ever  glowing  with  good- 
will to  all,  and  regarding  the  religion  of  the  Bible  as  the 
highest  and  most  important  object  of  life,  she  desires  that  all 
should  enjoy  its  hopes  and  pleasures,  and  be  actuated  by  its 
heavenly  principles  ;  she  lends  her  influence  to  promote  ana 
sustain  its  sacred  institutions,  and  to  extend  its  benign  bless- 
ings. She  ^^rieves  to  see  the  Sabbath  broken,  to  have  its 
hallowed  stillness  interrupted  by  week-day  employments  or 


HINTS.  425 

pleasures  ;  intemperance,  profaneness,  falsehood,  and  their 
kindred  vices,  thrill  her  heart  with  pain.  She  delights  in  all 
that  is  good  and  noble  in  human  character,  and  watches  with 
peculiar  interest  the  forming  and  virtuous  habits  developing 
in  the  young. 


HINTS. 

Improvement  of  time. — Do  small  things,  as  writing  a  let- 
ter, making  a  sketch,  reading  a  review,  etc.,  in  your  leisure 
moments ;  leaving  the  body  of  the  day  to  more  important 
affairs.  Instead  of  saying  much  about  your  employments  or 
wasting  time  in  procrastination  and  dread  of  them,  set  your- 
self quietly,  promptly,  resolutely  about  your  work,  and  you 
may  save  hours  for  the  acquisition  of  some  important  Art  or 
Science.  Always  have  convenient  work  at  hand,  that  your 
time  may  be  usefully  employed  during  a  social  call  or  in 
moments  of  leisure.  Much  time  and  labor  will  be  saved  by 
always  keeping  things  in  order.  Devise  methods  of  expedi- 
ting labor,  and  give  to  each  branch  its  due  importance. 
There  is  time  enough  for  every  work  and  duty  ;  if  any  thing 
is  neglected  from  a  supposed  want  of  time  the  fault  is  ours. 

Franklin's  code  of  morals.. — Eat  not  to  fulness — drink 
not  to  elevation — speak  not  but  what  may  benefit  others  or 
yourself — avoid  trifling  conversation.  Let  every  thing  have 
its  place,  let  each  part  of  your  business  have  its  time.  Re- 
solve to  perform  what  you  ought — perform  without  fail  what 
you  resolve.  Make  no  expense  but  to  do  good  to  others  or 
yourself,  wasting  nothing.  Lose  no  time,  be  always  em- 
ployed in  something  useful.  Use  no  deceit,  think  innocently 
and  justly,  and  if  you  speak,  speak  accordingly.  Wrong 
none  by  injuries,  or  omitting  the  benefits  which  are  your 
duty.  Avoid  extremes,  forbear  resenting  injuries.  Suffer 
no  uncleanliness  in  your  body,  clothes,  or  habitation.  Be 
not  disturbed  about  trifles,  or  at  accidents  common  or  una- 
voidable.    Imitate  Jesus  Christ. 


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